Your Massacre of Me
by jenben
Summary: Fulcrum escapes; Chuck doesn't.
1. The Lies that Bind

_Your Massacre of Me_

_The Lies that Bind_

A/N: I'm pretty excited about this story, partly because I haven't posted in so long and partly because it's really fun to write. I'd be awfully indebted for your thoughtful reviews. You're my readers: The ones who praise and the ones who critique. Many thanks. —your humble author

* * *

"Chuck."

Four seconds passed.

"Chuckles."

Another four seconds—maybe five.

"Chucky Chuck Chuck."

"_What_ do you _want_, Morgan?"

Morgan sat down on the edge of the bed. "I know you're sleeping, buddy, but I managed to score an advance copy of the _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles_ release—y'know, the sixth season. Anyway, the DVD player in my computer isn't working because I have the wrong codecs, so I thought I'd just come use your TV, but it's all…messed up. Could you fix it? And could I rip your codecs?"

Chuck finally opened his eyes. He debated all possible reactions to this early morning intrusion—from simply smacking Morgan upside his head to strangling him—and opted for a sigh. Even though the week had been a hellish combination of no sleep, constant flashes, and gun fights, Chuck never had the heart to get angry at Morgan.

"All right, get me the remotes for the TV and the DVD player."

Morgan jumped up and procured the necessary items. After Chuck synced the TV and DVD player, his friend began pulling out various box sets. "Hey, while I get the DVD started, you wanna go grab us a couple bowls of Cap'n Crunch?"

"I don't know if we have any Cap'n Crunch—"

"You do. Ellie bought it when she went grocery shopping on Thursday. Oh, and she got that Tropicana that isn't from concentrate, so bring in a couple of glasses."

Chuck smiled to himself as he left the room. Leave it to Ellie to get his favorite breakfast cereal and orange juice. And leave it to him to have not noticed. Team Chuck really needed to relax. Well, not the whole team; just two of its members. The two with guns.

"I had such a crush on her," Chuck garbled through his mouthful of Cap'n Crunch with Crunch Berries. He pointed to the television with his spoon. "I can't believe the new show got rid of April's jumpsuit."

"It was classic! And her new outfit is so…"

"Like something Anna would wear to work?"

"Yeah, but it looks _wrong_ on April."

Morgan got up to put in the next disc, then refilled his bowl and topped off Chuck's glass of orange juice. They settled back against the bed's headboard, both men content with such a familiar situation. Chuck couldn't even remember the last time he'd been able to truly relax and enjoy Saturday morning cartoons with his best friend.

"I wish they made an entire box of _just_ Crunch Berries."

Chuck paused the DVD. "We've been over this before, Morgan. If you didn't have the yellow bits, you wouldn't appreciate the Crunch Berries. They complement each other. It's like Ellie and Captain Awesome—"

"You mean Captain and Mrs. Awesome," Morgan retorted.

Chuck put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "It never would have worked between you two. You're free-spirited, Morgan—you can't just settle down with a white picket fence. You have cons to attend and MMORPGs to play." He let his hand drop. "Besides, what would Anna think? And what would she do to Ellie?"

"Something that wouldn't leave any traces."

"Comforting."

Morgan resumed the DVD and, half way through the first disc, both grown men were sound asleep. An episode later, they were spooned up against one another. By the time Ellie walked in on them, the DVD had already looped back to the menu page. They were still spooning.

* * *

"Chuck," Ellie said softly while she knelt at his side. She touched his shoulder gently. "Chuck, wake up; Sarah's here and I need to go to work."

Chuck opened his eyes and saw Ellie's smiling face. After a moment, he realized that Morgan was pressed up against him, with an arm slung over his midsection. Humiliation came and passed quickly as Chuck extracted himself from Morgan's grip. Not only did Ellie _not_ pass judgment, she tossed a blanket over Morgan and picked up their dirty dishes.

"_Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles_?"

"It's quality entertainment," he argued while digging for a sweatshirt.

"Hey, you don't have to explain yourself to me; I bought the entire box set of _Jem_, remember?"

They exited together, Ellie going to the kitchen and Chuck meeting Sarah in the living room. She didn't look especially happy.

"Is everything okay?" Chuck asked.

"We need to go to Casey's apartment."

Ah, yes, the day was too good to be true. So along came Sarah Walker and John Casey and Bryce Larkin and his Intersect and the U. S. government and _every single bad guy_ in the world. Where did they all _come_ from?

"All right, let's go." He opened the door, then said over his shoulder, "I'm going to Casey's; I'll be back at…a time…that's later."

"Have fun!"

Sarah wouldn't answer his questions during their short walk to Casey's. Instead, she kept him close to the side of the building and her hand hovered near the gun in her waistband. When they reached the door, Casey opened it, grabbed Chuck, and hauled him inside. Sarah remained by the door for a few seconds, canvassing their surroundings.

Chuck wrenched himself from Casey's grip. "I didn't really need the physical assistance finding your living room, thanks."

"Shut-up. Sit down."

A little tiny ball of fury flared inside of Chuck, then fizzled out. He'd just never been very good at rage—even when Bryce got him kicked out of Stanford, he'd been more overwhelmed than incensed. He let himself fall back onto the sofa.

"We're clear for now," Sarah said as she walked into the room, which somehow cued Casey to turn on the television. For, possibly, the billionth time, Chuck came face-to-monitor with Director Graham and General Beckman.

"Have you been contacted?" General Beckman demanded, looking at Chuck.

"Contacted? By whom?"

"By Joseph Vega."

"Who?"

"The Fulcrum agent!"

"_What_?"

"Mr. Bartowski," Director Graham interjected, drawing everyone's attention. "The Fulcrum agent who knows your identity escaped from our custody six hours ago. His name is Joseph Vega. Has he, or anyone else, attempted to contact you?"

Realization brought mild terror. "The Fulcrum guy _escaped_? He—um, no. Nobody's contacted me." He looked over at Sarah. "Should I expect a phone call or something? I thought he wanted to kill me."

"He doesn't want to kill you," General Beckman stated. "He wants to kidnap you. You're worth hundreds—probably thousands—of millions of dollars, Mr. Bartowski. Governments will kill to possess what's in your brain. Thankfully, the NSA and the CIA are here to protect you."

It was Graham's turn. "Agent Walker and Major Stacy will escort you to a safe location where you will wait for us to recapture Vega. At Agent Walker's request, you will leave in one half hour, which gives you time to pack a bag and inform your family that you are taking an extended vacation."

"But I—I don't wanna go—"

"Chuck, it's only until we find the Fulcrum agent," Sarah explained, trying to assuage his fears. "And you know how fast we work. Besides, capture and torture isn't something you want to become familiar with. And I know you don't want Ellie and Morgan to become targets. You have to trust us to take care of everything."

He hadn't thought of Morgan and Ellie becoming targets. "All right," he relented. "I'll go."

Sarah stood up to walk him home, but Director Graham intervened. "Agent Walker, we need to speak with you and Major Casey. Mr. Bartowski can pack his bags alone as long as he wears a transmitter badge. That way, we can monitor the sounds around him and his vital signs for any changes."

Casey dug around in a bag and pulled out a small, flesh-colored sticker, which he promptly stuck on the side of Chuck's neck. "It's got a homing device, too, so stay away from magnets."

"What? How are those two things even related?"

"Just go pack your bags, Bartowski."

Chuck made it a third of the way home before he remembered that he needed to shower. If the transmitter badge couldn't handle a couple of refrigerator magnets, it probably couldn't handle a rush of water. He turned around to go ask for transmitter badge bathing procedures. Not exactly the sort of topic he'd ever imagined broaching.

"But there has to be another way," he strained to hear Sarah state as he opened Casey's door. "I told him that this was a short-term situation."

"Which is probably for the best," General Beckman responded. "If Chuck knew that this move was supposed to be permanent, he wouldn't cooperate."

Director Graham took his turn again. "I understand your hesitation, Agent Walker, but the Intersect needs to be protected. Vega may have already informed his superiors of the Intersect's identity. Since we don't know the extent of the compromise, we must take all necessary precautions. That means permanently relocating Mr. Bartowski to a safe location underground. It's in everyone's best interest."

Chuck closed the door quietly and stood outside in the mid-morning sun. A permanent relocation? Underground? That meant never seeing Ellie or Morgan or Captain Awesome or _anybody_ ever again.

He remembered, when the crazy kebab girl had tried to kidnap him, just how much it wrenched his heart to leave. He'd managed to get by with the knowledge that the relocation wasn't forever—he'd see his big sister again. Still, as he stood on the roof—handcuffed—trying to say goodbye to Sarah, he had come very close to begging for freedom.

There was no way he could give up his family permanently. His mind rejected that concept completely, which left only one option.

Chuck needed to run away.

* * *

Morgan continued to sleep soundly. It made Chuck want to give him a big hug. Instead, he carefully removed the transmitter badge and placed it on his best friend, who nestled further under the blanket.

That completed, he had to figure out where he could go in the next half hour that wouldn't be easy to find. He couldn't drive his car because it had tracking equipment installed. He couldn't drive someone else's car for too long because local law enforcement would be told what to look for. It took a few minutes for him to work it out, but Chuck finally decided to call for a taxi on his cell phone, meet it at the gas station down the street, and head for the airport. On his way to the gas station, he'd stop at the bank, which was conveniently located only a couple businesses farther down.

He grabbed his backpack and shoved a few articles of clothing inside, then added his wallet, cell phone, a picture from last year's Christmas party, his laptop, the Spanish-English dictionary, and his secret stash of money, which would put him over 2500 after the bank withdrawal.

Before leaving, Chuck grabbed a piece of computer paper and wrote Ellie a quick note. He left it on her pillow.

_Sis—I have to go on a trip. I'm not sure when I'll be back, but don't look for me. I'm okay. Be careful and don't trust anybody (even Sarah). I love you. –Chuck_

In the taxi, half way to the airport, Chuck called Sarah on his phone. It took a few tries to dial her number; his hands refused to stop shaking.

"Chuck?"

"Hey, Sarah." _Don't panic, don't panic…you can do this_. "I'm done packing; I just wanna grab a shower. Is that okay?"

"Just be quick." She paused, then added, "The sooner we get you to safety, the better."

He wanted to ask her _whom_ it was better for, but simply agreed and hung up. That would buy him another ten minutes, then whatever time their confusion afforded. He hoped it was enough to buy a ticket to Yuma and get lost in the airport's crowd. He'd certainly be able to get lost in Yuma and, maybe later, Mexico.

* * *

"Chuck?"

Casey checked his watch. "He should be near by; we're practically on top of the transmitter signal. Unless that idiot went too close to a magnet."

"That's a complete rumor."

"No it's not."

Sarah rolled her eyes and walked toward Chuck's bedroom, where she expected to find her charge doing something productive. Instead, she discovered Morgan sprawled across Chuck's comforter.

"He should be in here," Casey whispered, determined to let Morgan sleep and, therefore, stay quiet. "The transmitter's within seven feet of my watch." He moved further into the room. "Four feet."

Sarah bent down to look under the bed, but found only Rubbermaid containers filled with Magick cards, comic books, NES and SNES and N64 and Sega and PS2 products, some Star Trek and Star Wars books, loads of textbooks, and masses of writable CDs that contained self-penned programs.

"He's not here."

"He _has_ to be here." Casey walked around the room while eyeing his watch. "He should be in the vicinity of the bed." He scrutinized the bed, looking under it and over it and at the ceiling. He prodded the mattress. Finally, he leaned over Morgan's prone body. Three seconds passed before he noticed the transmitter badge. "That _idiot_."

"What?"

Casey grabbed her arm and walked them swiftly out of the room. "Your idiot boyfriend has either been captured or run away. His transmitter badge is on his slightly stupider friend. And I'm pretty sure Fulcrum didn't get him," he said while he pushed buttons on his watch. "We'd have heard something and—here it is. His heart rate jumped from 110 to 65." Casey looked ready to murder someone. "Almost as if he suddenly fell asleep."

"Why would he _do_ this?"

"I don't know, but we need to find him _now_. I'll contact General Beckman; you look for clues to where he went."

Sarah began searching the apartment. She noted his missing laptop, money, and picture. She found his passport, though, which kept him somewhere in the United States. She knew, however, that it didn't take a mastermind to cross the Mexican or Canadian borders without proper identification.

In Ellie's room, Sarah found the letter and pocketed it. It broke her heart to know that Chuck was being wrenched from the only family he had in the world, but she was even sadder to know that he didn't want her to be trusted.

What was different this time? Why was he reacting to the move so much more forcefully than before? Where had his good-natured attitude gone?

Casey met her outside the apartment.

"Beckman and Graham agree that he's run off. I've activated the homing device in his wallet and it's transmitting from within the LA/Ontario Airport," he explained, letting her see the tracker in his hand. "I'm going to get him. You've been ordered to provide a cover story to his sister and then meet us at the landing pad."

"Shouldn't _I_ be the one to get him?"

"Why, because you're afraid I'll be too mean? He ran away from us, Walker. We have our orders."

She glared at him, but she couldn't argue. Instead, she shoved the note to Ellie into Casey's shirt pocket. "A little empathy wouldn't kill you," she stated before walking away.

Casey didn't bother replying or looking at the note. He headed directly for his car and sped off toward the airport. It was only fifteen minutes away, but he'd seen a lot of damage happen in less time than that.


	2. Leaving on a Jet Plane

Your Massacre of Me

_Your Massacre of Me_

_Leaving on a Jet Plane_

A/N: Many thanks to those who reviewed; I really appreciate your comments. Please continue (or start) to tell me what you think. Wouldn't you want someone to do that for you? —your humble author

LA/Ontario, thankfully, had very short lines at the ticket counter and screening area. Chuck knew it wouldn't take them long to figure out what had happened and they would make a beeline for the nearest airport. Surely, though, the terminals would hide him until his plane departed at 7:00—a three-and-a-half hour wait.

"Watches, jewelry, change, cell phones, and shoes can go in that box, sir," the security guard instructed before coughing violently into her palm. "The metal detectors are pretty sensitive."

Chuck emptied his pockets and removed his watch. He balanced himself on his left leg while he unlaced his right shoe, then switched places. In hindsight, loafers would have been a better bet.

He stepped through the metal detector's archway and nearly jumped out of his skin when it began to beep. He hadn't been this edgy since the last time he stayed up all night drinking Jolt and playing _Zelda: Ocarina of Time_ with Morgan. Before the Intersect came along, it had been an annual event.

"D'you have anything metal left in your pockets or a metallic surgical implant somewhere?" she asked.

"No."

She cleared her throat. "Any jewelry you forgot to take off?"

"No."

"Do you have anything else on your person besides your clothes, sir?"

Chuck patted himself down, then pulled out his wallet. It was the only thing besides his clothes and dental fillings that God hadn't given him at birth. The fillings were porcelain, so if the metal object wasn't in his wallet, God had some explaining to do.

The security guard waved her wand over the wallet. "Any change in it?" she asked when the wand beeped.

"No, it doesn't really hold change."

She shrugged and tossed it into the x-ray machine, then went to confer with the obese guard sitting in front of a monitor. They murmured back and forth for a moment before she called Chuck over. He looked behind him at the three waiting passengers and then hurried over.

"You got a metal thing," the heavier guard explained, pointing at the monitor. "What is it?"

Chuck had no idea. "I have no idea."

"It can't be more than a centimeter in diameter," the woman said as she handed it back. "Maybe it's a dime that got lost. Frankly, I don't care; it's not contraband. You can go."

Chuck slipped his shoes back on, shoved the laces into the sides, and grabbed his stuff. He hurried down the terminal to find the nearest populated departure gate and sat down to examine his wallet. Money, Red Cross donation card, CVS card, bank ID, license, Buy More ID, debit card, ATM card, and VISA. He dug around in the linty crevices but found nothing metal.

Finally, he reached for the only picture he kept in the wallet—a well worn photo of him and Ellie at Stanford. She had her arms around him and a giant smile plastered to her face. She was so proud of him and excited on his behalf and she only cried a little when it was time to part.

He had trouble removing the picture from its pocket; it got snagged on the wallet's seam. When he turned it over, he knew why: Someone had placed a dime-sized tracking device there.

At first, Chuck wanted to smash the device or flush it down a toilet—anything to make it disappear, but they had to already know where he was. Logic dictated that, instead of trying to stop them, he needed to misdirect them. That was when a revelation came and Chuck smiled for the first time since leaving his apartment that day.

A Southwest Airlines flight to Sacramento was just starting to board a few gates away. Chuck slung his backpack over a shoulder and walked quickly in the direction of boarding passengers. He was about to approach a young woman, but changed his mind and accosted the man in front of her.

"Excuse me," he said, getting close to the businessman while squinting at the destination display. "Is this the 3:45 flight to San Francisco?"

"No, it's the 3:55 flight to Sacramento."

Chuck dropped the homing device into the man's jacket pocket. "Thanks."

As Chuck walked away to buy a newspaper to hide behind for a few hours, he tried to shake the image of his poor victim being interrogated by government agents. It wasn't fair getting some innocent bystander involved. Had his experiences to date hardened him? Was he really willing to sacrifice another person for his own freedom?

Now conflicted, Chuck turned around and headed back to the Sacramento departure gate. He'd just make up some story—yet _another_ one—and get back the homing device. Sometimes, it was hard to remember all the lies.

Unfortunately, in the few minutes he'd been away, the man had boarded. There was no way to retrieve the gadget without arousing suspicion.

Chuck's shoulders fell and he sighed before shuffling back toward his own gate. He very sincerely hoped to never see Casey or Sarah or Bryce or anyone else connected to espionage ever again.

He just hoped that didn't mean never seeing Ellie or Morgan or Awesome again, either.

* * *

Casey stood in the airport and stared at the tracking signal, which had started to move outside of the building. It moved faster than a human on foot and began picking up speed quickly. The screen on his PDA-like device suddenly flashed from a small scale map of the immediate area to one that encompassed the airport and everything else within a one-mile radius. Casey whipped out his mobile.

"Find out which plane is taxiing down the runway _now_."

"Uh…um…that's…uh…that's flight 2283. It's going to Sacramento."

"Contact Agent Walker and tell her to take a jet to the plane's arrival point; the Intersect should be on board. If she can't get there in time, find a way to keep everyone on the plane when they land."

"Yes, sir."

Normally, Casey wouldn't accuse Chuck of doing anything devious or underhanded. There had never, in the history of the world, been a person _less_ inclined to covert operations than Chuck Bartowski. But this time, the kid seemed desperate to escape. So, instead of leaving the airport, Casey pulled out Chuck's picture and his own badge and approached the Delta Airlines desk.

"Have you seen him?"

The clerk shook his head. "No. What'd he do?"

John didn't grace the man with an answer, but moved to the next counter. It took him nearly an hour to find the Southwest ticket agent who had sold Chuck a ticket to Yuma. Apparently, Bartowski _had_ picked up a few tricks during their missions together.

After getting clearance from the senior TSA officer and informing General Beckman of his suspicions, Casey entered Terminal Four and headed towards Gate 405.

But he didn't find Chuck at Gate 405. He didn't find him at Gate 406, either. Or 407. Had he made a mistake? Had Chuck, perhaps, bought _two_ tickets? Maybe he really was on the plane to Sacramento. Then again, Casey felt certain that he'd spoken with every single ticket agent in the greater Los Angeles area. Whatever the case, the Yuma plane departed in just under two hours and Casey was growing angrier by the second. If he found—_when_ he found Chuck, the younger man was going to learn a lesson about the consequences of pissing off government operatives.

* * *

Chuck picked at the hamburger in front of him. Usually, he quite enjoyed Carl's Jr. and its Western Bacon Cheeseburger. He _adored_ the OREO cookie shake. But despite his physical hunger, having not eaten since that morning's breakfast with Morgan, Chuck couldn't muster up an appetite. Just looking at the food made him queasy.

He peered out from behind his newspaper and scanned the area around Gate 405. He didn't see anyone familiar. Or anyone holding a gun. Or anyone looking really, _really_ angry. With only an hour and a half until departure, Chuck began to feel hopeful that he might make it.

The sound of footsteps stopping at his table caused Chuck's heart to double in speed and intensity. Its thumping reverberated throughout his chest and he couldn't seem to draw in a breath.

"Excuse me," a young woman said softly. She peeked at Chuck from behind his newspaper and offered a shy smile. Chuck had never been so glad to see an unfamiliar girl in a Carl's Jr. uniform. "Hi."

"Hi."

She bit her lip and looked down for a moment. "It's really slow today, so I couldn't help noticing that you've been here for a while, but you haven't eaten any of your food. Is there something wrong with it? I'd be happy to get you something else," she offered readily.

Chuck's shoulders relaxed from their tense position and he _nearly_ smiled at her. "No, it's fine. I—I guess I wasn't hungry."

"Maybe you've got preflight jitters. I have one customer who flies out on the third Monday of every month; he has two vodka and orange juices at the Highballer—that's at the other end of the terminal—a Breakfast Burger here, and then two neat whiskies. Apparently, it's the only way he'll step foot on a plane."

"I'm not much for alcohol, but I bet it does the trick."

"Mr. Mahoney always boards with a smile plastered on his face."

Chuck managed a tiny smile of his own. "That's probably because he _is_ plastered."

The conversation died down and both parties looked uncomfortable. She began to edge away, looking very mildly disappointed.

"Well, if you need anything, let me know; I'll just be at the counter. My name's Lisa."

Chuck stood and awkwardly offered his hand. "I'm Chuck." Why did a cute girl have to be flirting with him at such a bad time? If only she were really ugly, with an unpleasant personality. "I hope I see you the next time I come through."

Lisa grinned. "I hope so, too."

He watched her walk away, then turned back to his paper. He had nearly found an article to read when he sensed her approaching again. She stopped and he tilted the edge of the paper forward so it wouldn't obscure his line of vision.

"Bartowski."

Everything inside of Chuck froze when he saw Casey's face. The shock nearly sent his heart into fibrillation and it certainly did a number on his brain, which completely ceased functioning.

"Get your things," Casey commanded. He looked angrier than when his car had been destroyed.

At first, Chuck couldn't move. Then, slowly, one after another, the synapses in his brain began firing again and Chuck found something inside himself that vaguely resembled courage. Or suicide.

"No."

Casey looked surprised for a brief moment. Clearly, he hadn't anticipated any resistance. "_What_?"

_Might as well go for it_, Chuck reasoned. "What're you gonna do, Casey? Drag me out of here? Make a big scene? You can't shoot me in front of these people."

Casey took a few deep breaths to control his rage. "Fine. Get your things so we can go _talk_. At the bar. Because I need a drink."

Chuck eyed him suspiciously, then looked around. There was Lisa, a cook in the back, one other customer, and various passengers milling outside of the restaurant. That was a lot of witnesses.

"Okay."

At the Highballer, Chuck sat down while Casey ordered three whiskies, one of which he placed before his charge. They sat in silence while Casey knocked back one drink and nursed the other. Chuck tried to knock back his own, but only managed one large gulp before aspirating. Casey looked annoyed.

"This is never gonna work," he stated. "Even if I let you get on the plane to Yuma, you'll be escorted off it after you land."

"I'll make a scene."

"We'll say you're a terrorist; they'll be begging us to take you off the plane."

"How can you _do_ this?"

"It's my _job_."

Chuck, who was beginning to feel more angry than scared, leaned closer to John. "I will _not_ let you and the government lock me away for the _rest of my life_."

"It's just until we find Vega."

Chuck's eyes narrowed. "I know your real orders. I overheard them." He looked ready to shout obscenities or cry or shoot Casey with optical laser beams, which, despite the circumstances, sounded _way_ awesome. "Maybe you weren't hugged enough as a kid. Maybe so many years at your job has killed your compassion. Clearly you don't love anybody and nobody loves you and you're okay with that. Great. But I've got _family_. I've got Ellie and Morgan and Devon and they mean _everything_ to me—yes, even Devon. And I'm not gonna let anybody destroy that; I'm not gonna let you hurt them."

Everything fell into place for Casey. He understood Chuck's motives now and, although he didn't appreciate the accusation of having no one to love, he discovered a newfound respect for Bartowski. Suddenly, John Casey felt the inklings of guilt, a previously unknown emotion. He didn't like it.

"We have to protect you."

"You mean you have to protect the Intersect."

"I _mean_…we have to protect both." Casey sighed. "If there were another way, we'd take it. Nobody _wants_ this. But after we catch Vega, how do we know whom he's told about you? How many other people are going to know your identity? Your life is in danger. Either they'll kidnap and torture you, they'll kill you, or we'll keep you safe underground. Which option do you think your sister would pick?"

Chuck looked down at his drink. "That's not good enough," he replied softly. "There has to be another way." He looked up again. "I've cooperated with you guys on everything. You want to use me for national security? Okay. You don't want me to tell anybody anything, even though it's put a barrier between me and others? Okay. You want to imprison me temporarily? I even agreed to that, Casey. I have put up with listening devices, people shooting at me, getting drugged, getting lied to, your insults, Sarah's pretend love, sleepless nights, getting shoved into trunks, and constant flashes from the computer in my brain." Chuck's demeanor changed as he reached the final truth. "But I can't make it without my family. That's asking for too much."

A few minutes of silence passed. Chuck stared anxiously out of the window at the planes and ground crews. Casey tipped his half-finished glass of whiskey and rolled the liquid around. For some reason, he looked the _tiniest_ bit sad.

Chuck blinked a couple times to clear his vision. It was strange, but things were starting to blur. And his lungs didn't want to function correctly; each breath was slow and shallow and he found himself having to consciously breathe in deeply. He should never have had a shot of whiskey on an empty stomach.

"Chuck."

Chuck turned his head to face Casey, but it seemed to be in slow motion. Had the world sped up? Had gravity suddenly doubled? And why did Casey's voice sound as if it were in the next room?

"It's gonna be okay, Chuck."

Casey had clearly said words—meaningful words with dictionary definitions and everything—but they meant little as a sentence.

"What's…wrong with me?" Chuck asked.

Casey stood and helped Chuck get up. He took the other man's backpack and began to lead him away from the bar and out of the terminal while he spoke into a cell phone. It wasn't until they neared the airport's exit that Chuck's brain caught up.

"Stop," he managed to say, the sudden, panicked realization lending him some clarity. "What—what did you do to me? Stop…Casey, please don't do this." He staggered in front of Casey, nearly fell over, then gripped his handler's shirt for support. "You can't…please…I'm begging you," he choked.

Casey took Chuck's arms and helped him outside. "I'm sorry," he whispered as he opened the door of a black, unmarked car that was waiting for them. It was here that Chuck's knees gave out and he fell. Thankfully, Casey caught him under the arms and helped him find the backseat. Another agent pulled Bartowski into the middle, buckled him in, then cuffed his hands together. Casey got inside next to Chuck and cued the driver.

Chuck could feel his consciousness abating. His eyes wouldn't stay open, his limbs couldn't move, and the edges of his vision began to darken.

"Please," he mumbled, barely audible, before his head fell back against the seat and he lost consciousness.

* * *

Please review


	3. Contagious, Outrageous

A/N: Thank you SO much for reviewing! It's a great boost to know _what people think_ and it makes me want to work harder on the story. I could really use your opinions on this chapter because I think it might be a bit clichéd or "off" somehow. —your humble author

_Your Massacre of Me_

_Contagious, Outrageous_

There were so _many_ layers of consciousness to sort through—big, fat, fluffy layers made of goose down comforters and puppies. As soon as he got out from under one, another descended to placate and coddle him. Every so often, he would come around long enough to realize that he was sleeping, then he would float back to the seductive embrace of unconsciousness.

Eventually, sleep bid Chuck a fond farewell and he opened his eyes. Still quite groggy, he scanned his quarters and felt mild surprise that they weren't familiar. Instead of his bedroom, he found himself in Spartan surroundings: A simple twin bed, a nightstand with a lamp, a dresser, a desk. White walls, white sheets, plastic desk chair. Sparse, nondescript. The perfect place to stash government property.

Chuck couldn't control the sudden despair that enveloped him as memories of his failed escape attempt returned. As he lay in the bed, the severity of the situation sank in and he had trouble breathing. If he hadn't been able to escape from his own city with a head start, there was no chance of escaping from a government stronghold. He'd never see his family again.

In his defeat and the quiet solitude of the room, Chuck let himself cry. It wasn't the cathartic release of pent-up emotions; his features didn't contort in anguish. The tears fell easily and abundantly down the sides of his face. He didn't notice as they wet his hair and the pillow. He didn't care. He didn't care about anything now. Nothing mattered.

Eventually, Chuck forced his body into an upright position. Although he didn't feel there was much to live for, his bladder begged to differ. He fought off a wave of dizziness and headed for the en-suite bathroom, which had the same sterile atmosphere as the rest of his quarters. Afterward, he tried to open the room's door and wasn't surprised to find it locked. Resigned, he got back into bed, curled up on his side, and stared at the dresser.

It wasn't long before he heard his door make a clicking sound. The handle turned, the door opened a crack, and a head slowly poked through.

"Hi, Chuck," Sarah said softly as she entered with a tray of food. Her expression was one of compassion and sympathy as she sat down on the edge of his bed. "I brought you something to eat; you're probably really hungry."

He was ravenous. He was so hungry that he felt nauseas. Unfortunately, he lacked an appetite—nothing seemed palatable and he didn't _want_ to eat. Instead, Chuck took the water bottle from the tray; he didn't know what Casey had used, but it caused incredible thirst.

"How're you feeling?" Sarah asked as she placed the tray close to Chuck.

Chuck stared at the water bottle for a long time before answering. "I'm tired."

She nodded. "Well, the…_stuff_ that Casey used is kind of long lasting and you swallowed more than he intended. You should feel less sedated in a few hours." She nudged the tray closer to him. "Food would probably help with that."

"I'm not hungry."

"Chuck, it's been sixteen hours since you left the airport. You need some nourishment." She smiled and picked up one of the smaller plates on the tray. "Don't you even want the cookies? I got them from the vending machine just for you."

He wouldn't look at her. "I don't want anything from you."

Chuck had a million other things he wanted to say about how they stole his education and his brain and his life and his freedom. He especially wanted to rip into Sarah for all of the emotional turmoil her fake love had caused him. But most of all, he wanted her to leave so he could go back to sleep and pretend nothing had happened.

"Please just go."

Sarah sighed and got off the bed. "I'm going to look for Vega," she told him. "Casey, Bryce, and I have all been assigned to search for him and the CIA has assigned covert agents to keep Ellie safe in case Vega shows up there. They're in good hands."

The mention of his sister and best friend got Chuck's attention.

"She's in danger?"

Sarah shook her head. "She'll be fine. We have one agent posted at the apartment complex, one at her hospital, and one to track her covertly."

"What did you tell her?" Chuck asked after a moment.

"About what?"

"What does she think is happening to me? Where does she think I am?" When Sarah didn't answer, Chuck sat up in bed. "What did you say to her?"

After another long pause, Sarah answered, "We wanted to prevent her from wondering or looking for you. If she thought you were alive, she'd never have any peace—"

"She thinks I'm _dead_? You told her I _died_?" He fell back against the pillow. "What have you done?" he whispered. "How _could_ you?"

"I didn't want to, Chuck! It was the only way to keep her from worrying about you every day. Would you rather she spent the rest of her life searching for someone she can't find?"

He turned his face into the pillow and choked out a sob. He could only imagine Ellie's heartbreak. "Get out!" he cried. "Get out! Get _out_!

Sarah opened the door and stepped out quickly. She had to take a few deep breaths to keep from crying.

In her seven years with the Agency, Sarah had killed quite a few people. Out in the field with lives hanging in the balance, she'd killed, lied, tortured, stolen—whatever got the mission accomplished. Each act haunted her. But none of it compared to the guilt she felt for Chuck's sadness and imprisonment. It was _almost_ enough to make her question whether she still valued her commitment to the government above everything else.

Almost.

* * *

The following day, Chuck awoke to find his room slightly more lived-in. The dresser had clothes in it similar to his own. There were a couple pads of paper, some pens and pencils, a few books about computers, and a portable DVD/CD player. There were, however, no DVDs or CDs.

The bathroom, which Chuck couldn't help making use of, now contained a drinking cup, toothbrush, floss, toothpaste, shampoo, soap, towels, and washcloths. When he returned to the bedroom, another tray of food sat on the desk. There was a bowl of cereal, toast, milk, orange juice, bacon, and eggs. It all looked grotesque. He drank the orange juice and picked at everything else, then sat at the desk with his head in his hands.

Laszlo's intense anger (and psychosis) suddenly seemed reasonable and appropriate. Chuck couldn't decide whether he felt more rage or hopelessness, although each fueled the other to some degree.

The rage made him restless, however; he wanted to lash out or destroy something. Unfortunately, there wasn't much to destroy except for the DVD player, and that would be a short-lived pleasure. Instead, he decided to use his room's small space for some calisthenics. It had been a very, _very_ long time since he last did any jumping jacks and they left him winded. The crunches hurt. The push-ups felt good to a certain point—the point at which his arms turned to jelly. He got through about three repetitions of jumping jacks, crunches, and push-ups before his body refused to pick itself up off the floor. Interestingly, the physical exhaustion caused him to feel less horrible.

After catching his breath, Chuck went into the bathroom for some water. He drank one glass, waited for the nausea to subside, and downed a second.

When he turned toward the doorway, he found himself suddenly face-to-face with a powerfully built man in a suit. Chuck jumped so far back that he fell into the shower. The other man towered over him.

"I can't say I blame you for wanting to take another shower after that workout, but you should probably get undressed first. Otherwise, I'll have to make a note in your file." He helped Chuck to his feet. "I'm Mike Webb. I'm the director of this facility."

"A banquet hall is a facility. This is a prison."

Mike thought over Chuck's retort. "Yes, in a way. After all, you weren't given a choice and you won't be allowed to leave. But I've visited prisons in the United States and some in South America and, trust me, those places make this prison look like Xanadu."

He led them out of the bathroom. "For starters, the food here is significantly better." He looked down at Chuck's tray and frowned. "Do you beg to differ?"

"I'm not hungry."

Mike nodded knowingly. "I'm sure your appetite will return soon. And, while you're waiting, you have access to any movies, music, books, or video games you want. Simply tell one of the staff members what you're interested in and he or she will get it to you by the next day—assuming we don't have to import it from overseas. The same goes for your room. You tell us what you'd like—within reason, of course—to personalize it and I'll make sure you get it."

He sat down at Chuck's desk. "If it's athletics that you're keen on, we have an Olympic-size swimming pool, indoor track, weight room, and basketball and squash courts. Obviously, we don't have any team sports, but once in a while I like to go one-on-one with a few of the residents who enjoy squash. Let me know and I'll pencil you in."

This was all extraordinarily surreal for Chuck. Mike gave the impression of a man who runs a spa or leisure center; he was so relaxed and nonchalant—not at all the director of a government holding facility for security risks.

"Now, before I turn the floor over to you, Chuck, I should lay out a few ground rules. First and foremost, you may not share—with anyone—any confidential information. Director Graham told me that your first name is Chuck, your transition here will be difficult, and that you are highly intelligent. I don't know _anything_ else." He narrowed his eyes at the young man standing dumbfounded before him. "I don't want to know more. I don't want to know what you did for Director Graham. I don't want to know where you came from. I don't even want to know your middle name. Is that clear?"

Chuck stared at Director Webb like a zombie deer in some headlights. Had Mike not known any better, he would have assumed his new guest was having a petit mal seizure.

"Chuck," Webb called, snapping his fingers at the young man. "I need to make sure you comprehend the first rule: Don't talk about anything in your life that happened before you got here. Understand?"

Chuck blinked. "Yes, but—"

"No." Mike pointed a finger at him. "There are no exclusions to this rule. If you can't abide by it, I will keep you in complete isolation. You will have contact with _no one_. Should I make those arrangements now? Would you be better off spending the rest of your life in solitude?"

Chuck looked horrified. "No! No. It won't be a problem." He sighed and looked down at his feet. "There's nothing I really want to talk about anyway."

Mike smiled genuinely. "That's good; I'd really hate to do anything so drastic. Now, that brings me to the second rule: Cooperation. The more you cooperate with us, the more smoothly life here can go. You've probably already begun to wonder how you can get out of this facility."

He leaned back in the chair and his demeanor seemed to undergo a minute change. "You can't get out. If you try to escape, the security personnel here are authorized to use whatever means are necessary. Director Graham personally authorized the use of deadly force." He stood and moved closer to Chuck. "Do you know what that means?"

Chuck's breath came faster and he had to calm his shredded nerves before answering. "You'll kill me."

"Yes. It's a last resort, but we take security very seriously here. Of course," he added, smiling, "I can't imagine you would try to leave. You seem to have a good head on your shoulders, Chuck."

He sat down again. "Now, what questions do you have? Any requests for entertainment? Or food? We certainly don't want you to go hungry."

Chuck sat down on his bed. "Is this forever?"

"Unless the circumstances of your security risk change, yes."

"So I'll never see my family. Ever," he whispered. "I'll never get married. I'll never have kids. I'll never even see the outside world again. No more rites or passages. No more friends." He looked from his hands to Director Webb. "My life is over."

Mike went to sit next to his charge. "That isn't true at all, Chuck. I'm sure you'll make friends with some of the staff here. And there are a lot of opportunities for learning, acquiring useful skills. We had a gentleman about ten years ago in a situation nearly like yours; he took to studying chemistry and now he has his own lab here. He does work for the DoD and finds it very fulfilling. He even has an assistant whom he's good friends with—they just don't talk about life before coming here. And their work is supervised by an armed guard and video surveillance." He shrugged. "It's give and take."

"It's all take."

Mike pretended he hadn't heard that comment and patted Chuck on the back. "Look, why don't we save the harder stuff for a later time. Right now, why don't you tell me what sort of books and movies you like and I'll send somebody out to get them right away."

Chuck stared at the floor. "I wanna take a nap. I'm tired."

Webb looked displeased by this idea, but he stood up. "All right. After the exercise earlier, you're probably a little burnt out. I'll just have them wake you when they bring lunch." He headed for the door. "While you're falling asleep, give some thought to the stuff you want—books, DVDs, music, video games, art supplies—whatever you fancy."

Chuck just lay down and turned to face the wall. He pulled the covers up to his chin to keep out the room's chill and closed his eyes to keep out the world around him.

* * *

Chuck sat up in bed watching _Jem_. He had been watching it and re-watching it for the last six days, in addition to _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles_. If he wasn't in bed watching cartoons, he was in bed sleeping away the hours or restlessly pacing his room. His food remained mostly untouched; it made him nauseous.

It was more than the food, though. Over the course of the last few days, he'd developed a sore throat and headache, then a cough, chills, and congestion. Now, as he stared blearily at Jem and the Holograms singing "Twilight in Paris," Chuck tried to conceal his symptoms from the cameras in the room. If they thought he was getting sick, they might bother him. It didn't occur to Chuck that the severity of his symptoms was increasing with each passing day, or that his vivid dreams about the CIA, his family, Jem, Raphael, and Michelangelo were the result of a feverish mind. Actually, he kind of liked the dreams.

Chuck sensed a coughing fit seize his chest and throat. It felt like a big one. He tried to get to the bathroom, where he hoped the sound of running water would drown out the sound of coughing. Unfortunately, the fit started before he could turn on the tap.

Instead, he grabbed the counter and began coughing violently into the sink. His chest loosed a gob of green mucous with a few bits of something rust-colored. Still the coughing continued. Eventually, he threw up into the sink and sank to his knees as the world dimmed around him. He heaved ragged breaths and rested his head against the counter's edge; long moments passed before he could get up to wash out his mouth and the sink.

Chuck wiped errant tears from his eyes and slowly lowered himself back into a sitting position. He didn't have the energy to walk back to his bed. He considered crawling, but it seemed like such a long distance. And surely the cameras would notice something like that. Finally, after analyzing his situation, he opted to curl up on the bathroom floor, which felt far too cold on his body but delightfully cool against his face. He hugged his knees to his chest and tried not to think about how much it hurt to breathe.

* * *

In the surveillance room, Roger Rodgers (he hated his parents) flipped between cameras. Each resident's room had a camera in the main quarters and another in the bathroom. His job was to spend one minute looking at a resident's room every ten minutes. It only totaled 48 minutes of surveillance per resident per shift, but the system worked well; nobody had ever escaped.

Roger switched to the bedroom camera of the young man in 212. The kid was new to the compound and spent all of his time sleeping or watching the DVD player in bed and looking like someone whose puppy had just died.

Unfortunately, 212 wasn't in bed this time. That meant Roger needed to check the bathroom, which was his _least_ favorite part of the job. He had tried to tell Director Webb that he'd seen many things take place in bathrooms over the last two years and _none_ of them required surveillance. But Webb wouldn't listen, so Roger prepared himself to change camera views.

No, not in the shower.

Or at the sink.

Or on the toilet.

Roger panned down and quickly discerned the situation. He immediately informed his superior and waited anxiously for a medical team to enter room 212.

_Great_, Roger thought to himself as he watched a doctor and nurse race to the young man's side. _There goes my argument against bathroom surveillance_. _I knew I should have gone to graduate school_.

* * *

On the evening of his seventh day at the facility, Chuck became aware of the muffled sound of voices.

"Pneumonia," he heard. "Because of his poor nutrition and the delay in treatment from the onset of symptoms, it's progressed rapidly. We had a heck of a time bringing his fever under 104."

"He was perfectly healthy a week ago."

"You said yourself that he's been extremely depressed. You'd be amazed at the sort of havoc depression can wreak on a person's immune system. And it doesn't help that he hasn't been eating."

"Will he be all right?"

"He should be. We got the fever down and his oxygen saturation up. Since this is bacterial, he'll be feeling significantly better after a couple days of antibiotics."

Director Webb whistled softly. "One week and he's already caused this much trouble." He brushed aside a stray lock of Chuck's hair. "Graham gave me quite a chewing out for this. And you'll never believe it, but I got a call from _General Beckman_."

"With the NSA?"

"Mm-hmm. I don't know what genius here did for the government, but he's definitely top priority. We aren't supposed to take our eyes off him." Mike sighed. "And he seemed like such a good kid at first."

"Don't be too hard on him. In terms of trouble, he's caused a lot less than some of the others." The doctor chuckled quietly. "Do you remember Dave Tillion?"

"Do I have to?"

"Now _that_ guy was a few cherries short of a fruitcake."

"A fruitcake? David Tillion tried to blow my head off. If Agent Andrews didn't have such good aim, they'd still be scrubbing bits of my brain off the walls. But you've made your point; this kid probably doesn't know what end of a gun to shoot from. I thought he was gonna pass out when I told him we're authorized to use deadly force."

A soft voice interrupted their conversation. "Mr. Webb? I'm sorry to bother you, but Assistant Director Ankulos is here now."

At the sound of a young woman, Chuck finally managed to lift his eyelids a couple millimeters. Despite the blurriness and his inability to focus, he found himself overwhelmed by the sight of something soft and feminine. Outlined by the light coming through the doorway, she looked angelic.

"Ellie?" he whispered hoarsely. "Ellie, I don't feel good."

"Keep me updated," Webb instructed before putting his arm around his secretary and guiding her out. "Just the girl I wanted to see," Mike exclaimed as they walked through the door. "I need you to send out a fax before you leave for the night. I'd do it myself, but you remember what happened last time."

The doctor hurried to a glass cabinet and scrounged around for the proper vial of medicine, then grabbed a clean syringe and filled it with an appropriate dosage. Times like these, when he had to perform the mundane and petty tasks of medicine, made him miss the days of having a nurse readily available.

"Okey dokey," he said as he slipped the needle into the IV. "It's time for you to turn in for the night. And no mumbling state secrets in your sleep." He gently patted Chuck on the shoulder and then walked out of the infirmary and into his office.

For his part, Chuck didn't understand why Ellie had left the room. She was a doctor, after all. And his big sister. Why would she abandon him like that?

* * *

Please review


	4. Deathbed Confessions

_Your Massacre of Me_

_Deathbed Confessions_

Dr. McHugh held a plate of food in one hand and a feeding tube in the other.

"It's your choice: Lovely bowl of soup and some bread or a giant tube stuck up your nose and down your esophagus. It doesn't exactly take a rocket scientist to figure this one out." He paused. "Of course, I'm assuming that you aren't a rocket scientist."

"I'm _really_ not hungry."

"Feeding tube it is, then."

"All right!"

Chuck accepted the dishes and stared mournfully at its contents. He pushed the spoon around, picked it up, then let the chicken broth dribble down. After some hesitancy, though, he gave it a try and found it soothing on his throat. He polished the soup off quickly and took a few bites of the bread. Why bother resisting, anyway?

"I'm done."

Dr. McHugh looked up from his copy of the DSM-IV. "Are you?" He walked over and inspected the bowl. "See? That wasn't so bad—probably a lot better than forced feeding."

"My only options were the soup or a feeding tube."

The doctor took the bowl. "We'll split the difference—_coerced_ feeding." He went to reach for the glass of water but found himself unable to juggle a diagnostic manual, his reading glasses, a plate, bowl, and cup. He set the book down and grabbed the cup. "Here, learn something."

Chuck watched Dr. McHugh leave the room, walk past his office, past the guard, and out into the hall. Sometimes the weirdness of the situation made him forget his heartache. The government easily had _The Twilight Zone_ beat in every category.

Director Webb walked in a few minutes later with a guest.

"You look much improved," he exclaimed. "It's amazing what a couple days of rest and drugs can do for a person." Mike turned to the man next to him. "Would you believe he nearly died from pneumonia two days ago?"

"Here? How did you get pneumonia _here_?"

"Oh, he's a new arrival," Mike said before Bartowski could answer.

The guest smiled genuinely. "I'm Assistant Director Ankulos, but you can call me Harry. What's your name, son?"

Chuck was taken aback by Harry's demeanor. He _looked_ a lot like Mike—tall, dark-suited, early 50s, stupid chiseled features like stupid John Casey—but he didn't possess Mike's terrifying, calculated manner. He seemed nearly human.

"I'm Chuck, Chuck Bar—…um, just Chuck."

Harry's grin grew wider. "Chuck, eh? Not a lot of young men go by that name anymore. You must be quite an individual. Are you making your way around here all right?" he asked while Director Webb went to speak with Dr. McHugh, who had just reentered.

_This place is killing me_. "It's okay."

Harry sat on the edge of the bed. "I didn't really have you pegged as the lying type, Chuck. Y'know, you can't tell me your last name or where you're from or what you've done, but you don't have to pretend to be happy."

Chuck's eyes widened in surprise. He had started to become accustomed to being the government's science project—they didn't really like him, but they'd go to any lengths to protect their good grade. Harry, though, seemed truly interested.

"It's not okay," he admitted. "I don't know what to do. I miss my family…the government took everything and…" Chuck stopped and looked down. He hadn't expected to be so painfully honest. "I can't live like this," he said softly.

Ankulos placed his hand on the younger man's forearm. "You can't give up," he whispered fiercely. "You've got to hold on to hope, Chuck; things can change—especially if you know the right people."

Chuck looked up suddenly, surprised by Harry's statement and forcefulness. He wanted to question the man further, but Webb interrupted.

"I hope you two aren't telling secrets."

The comment made Chuck jumpy, but Harry answered with perfect aplomb. "As a matter of fact, I was just telling him my secret remedy for getting over the stomach flu. I was in fifth grade back in, gosh, it must have been 1967. My stomach started to hurt in class and I tried to get my teacher's attention, but she told me to wait my turn. Well, she didn't make me wait much longer after I redecorated her classroom carpeting. My mother picked me up and I spent most of the day going back and forth between our living room sofa and the bathroom. Then, in the evening, I managed to keep down a grape popsicle and fell asleep. When I woke up a couple hours later, I felt perfectly fine. That was when I discovered the curative powers of grape popsicles." Harry stood up. "You'd probably enjoy one yourself. I'm sure it works just as well with pneumonia as with the stomach flu."

Chuck smiled a little. "That sounds good."

Director Webb lit up. "Wonderful! We'll go get one now."

"Let's get a few," the doctor said. "I'm a firm believer in preventative medicine."

The men headed for the door, but Harry stopped and turned to look intently at Chuck. "I'll come by later and see how you're doing. Maybe we can finish our conversation then." He turned back around and said, much more breezily, "You can tell me about a time when you embarrassed yourself in front of an entire classroom of eleven-year-olds."

* * *

The following day, Chuck took the opportunity to write a letter to his sister. It took him forty minutes just to get past "Dear Ellie," and the entire composition—including two naps—consumed the whole day. Nevertheless, it made him feel less lonely and awakened a sense of hope and perseverance.

_Dear Ellie,_

_Do you remember my last birthday? The one when you tried to introduce me to your and Devon's doctor friends? Well, when that failed, I went to my room and found an email from Bryce, which was quite a surprise since he got me kicked out of Stanford and stole the only girl I ever loved. It was even more surprising when his email downloaded millions of top secret government files into my brain._

_Shortly after, I acquired two new "friends." You know them as Sarah, my girlfriend, and John Casey, my scary coworker. Neither is what he or she seems (well, Casey really is scary). Sarah works for the CIA; she was (is?) Bryce's girlfriend and fellow agent. Her job was to "protect" me the computer in my head. Casey's an NSA assassin who also "protected" me. Mostly, they told me to stay in the car while they went to fight bad guys, but this never worked out because they both suck._

_Recently, the one person who knew my identity who wasn't supposed to (he's part of some other agency and kidnapped Bryce so everyone thought Bryce was dead, but Sarah and Casey found him, then the other agency guy found out who I was and tried to take me, but Bryce shot me while I was wearing a bulletproof vest and the CIA took him—not Bryce—away. My life has turned into some sort of soap opera from hell) escaped from custody. The government told me I had to go into hiding until they found this Fulcrum (that's his agency's name—I think) guy, but I found out that they wanted to keep me here forever._

_I tried to escape. I tricked everybody and nearly got on a plane to Arizona, but Casey found me and I agreed to talk with him in a public place. That's the last time I'll ever trust a government agent; he drugged my drink and I woke up in some Godforsaken underground prison. Sarah told you I died and I know we're not supposed to hate people, but I think I hate her and Casey and Bryce. After everything that's happened, it feels like I have a black hole in my chest and it's killing me._

_But I'm not going to give up, Ellie. I don't care how long it takes or what I have to do—I'll find a way back home to you and Devon and Morgan. And even though you'll never read this, I'm holding myself to my promise._

_Chuck_

Shortly after Chuck signed his name, Dr. McHugh raced into the infirmary from his office and began grabbing machines and equipment off of shelves. As he hurriedly placed items on a tray, the sickbay's doors burst open and Director Webb and a guard helped Harry make his way into the room.

"It's like a vice clamp," Harry gasped when he got to the bed. He gripped his chest with one hand and a fistful of sheets with the other.

"Take off his shirt and lay him down," McHugh ordered as he reached for the oxygen mask. With the rapidest movements, he set up the heart monitor, listened to Harry's chest, inserted an IV, and looked at the ECG readout. "So, is this your first heart attack?" he asked calmly while he measured out syringes of medication.

"Yes, and I'd like it to be the first of many, so hurry up with the drugs."

Chuck watched in awe as Dr. McHugh took blood, continued to observe and examine vital signs, and administer heparin, digitalis, nitroglycerin, beta blockers, and morphine—not that Chuck knew what was in any of the syringes. Incidentally, that was probably why, when Dr. McHugh gave him "a little something" to go with the antibiotics last night, Chuck never expected to be out cold a few minutes later.

"The treatment seems to be working," McHugh said eventually, "which is great, since I'm not equipped to perform an emergency angioplasty or bypass surgery. How are you feeling? Less pain?"

Harry nodded. "Things seem a lot less constricted." He let out a sigh of relief and relaxed against the pillow. "I don't know what I would have done if I hadn't been here. I could have been in my hotel—or on the road."

"But you weren't," Mike replied and patted Harry on the shoulder. "You were here and now you're gonna get some rest tonight and we'll ship you back to D. C. when the good doctor gives you the okay."

"That should be tomorrow," Dr. McHugh said. "I'll go get on the phone with your GP right now and have him schedule a surgeon for you." He shook his head as he headed for his office. "First pneumonia, now a heart attack. I'm gonna be stuck here forever if this keeps up."

Director Webb chuckled softly. "You two get some rest. Harry, we can discuss that new project later, when you aren't on death's door. Chuck, in addition to national secrets, we'd like you to keep your pneumonia to yourself, as well. Oh, and I'll drive you to the airport in the morning, Harry." Mike smiled at them, turned around, and walked out. He stopped briefly in Dr. McHugh's doorway for a short conversation.

Chuck, with his mouth slightly agape, stared blankly at Director Ankulos. "Did you just have a heart attack? And now you're fine? And he's making jokes?"

"Things move very quickly in this business."

"You're telling me," Chuck whispered to himself. He then asked, with the true concern of a civilian, "Are you okay?"

Harry smiled. "I'm fine. I saw this coming and Dr. McHugh did exactly what he should have—which is a lucky thing for me. Besides, it's my own fault; I have a family history of heart attacks, but I just can't say no to a good prime rib. Or a stick of butter."

"It was incredible to watch. I haven't seen a lot of medical emergencies, but my sister talks about them over dinner. She told me once about handling some guy's wriggling intestines after his stitching tore. The spaghetti wasn't—" Chuck stopped suddenly and put his hand over his mouth. "Sorry! It was an accident."

"Calm down. Nobody's gonna shoot you for letting something slip. Actually," he admitted in a much quieter voice, "I was gonna ask a little about you. For example, how did you wind up nearly dying from pneumonia while under government supervision? Have they been neglecting you?"

"Neglecting me? No. No, I didn't want them to know I wasn't feeling well. I just wanted them to leave me alone."

Harry tried to turn over to get a better look at his roommate, but the various cords and tubes restricted him to a single position. "Something tells me you weren't really prepared for life here. Not a willing member of the intelligence community?" he asked.

"When I was young, my mom left the family. Dad worked all the time and then he died when I was nineteen. But if I could go back in time and change any one thing, I would throw away my acceptance letter from Stanford and go to UCLA. Or USC. Or any place where Bryce Larkin wouldn't ruin my life. Twice."

Director Ankulos nodded knowingly. "College. That's where they recruited me, too. What did I know? I was twenty years old and up for adventure. Now, 31 years later, I'm world-weary and ready for a triple bypass. And I'm alone."

"Alone?"

Harry sighed. "I never got married. It's hard to get close to someone whom you can't share anything with. All of the lies and deception wreak havoc on relationships. It even distanced me from my family; I haven't spoken with my sister in seven years, ever since I missed our mother's funeral. All I told her was that I had business overseas, but I couldn't explain that my business was helping organize a massive operation against FARC in Columbia. When I finally got home, Helen slammed the door in my face. The work is rewarding, but it comes with a heavy price."

"You haven't seen your sister in _seven years_?"

"Seven very long years."

Chuck's shoulders fell a little. He hadn't thought about the actual passage of time, just the concept of not seeing his family. "I have a sister," he said quietly. "Ellie. She's taken care of me for most of my life; she's one of my best friends. They told her I died."

"Oh, Chuck…oh, that's horrible. She must be devastated." After a moment, he asked, "Do you think you could tell me what happened to cause all of this? If the circumstances are right—" He suddenly looked around and then urged Chuck to move closer. "If the circumstances are right," Harry whispered, "I might be able to find a way to get you out of here."

Chuck's jaw dropped and his eyes grew to the size of satellite dishes. "_How_? I thought that was impossible."

Harry smiled. "I may only be an _assistant_ director, compared to Mike's _director_, but I have more authority; I run the CIA's Computer Technology Research and Development Department for the Technological Services Division—MK-HALO. You wouldn't be the first person I've pulled out from the underground, but this could take some finesse. And possibly a bit of deception."

"I don't think I have any skills that the Computer Research…Tech…MK…your department could use."

"Let me be the judge of that. Just tell me what you did that got you thrown in here."

Chuck hesitated for a moment. He knew everyone had told him to never reveal himself, but "everyone" had also tricked, drugged, lied to, and imprisoned him. Finally, he took a deep breath and began.

"When I was in college, I had this friend, Bryce; he was the closest friend I'd ever had. He introduced me to the girl I fell in love with, he looked out for me, he got me into our fraternity. Then, in the last semester of our senior year, he framed me for cheating and got me kicked out of school—and he stole my girlfriend. Ostensibly, this was to keep me from getting recruited by the CIA.

"A year ago, Bryce sent me an email that somehow downloaded millions of government files into my head, making me a target for bad guys—of which there seems to be an endless supply. The government let me stay at home with my sister, but when the person who knew my identity escaped custody, my handlers brought me here." He sighed. "I guess my brain is government property."

Assistant Director Ankulos had listened intently, but didn't share Chuck's disappointment at the end of the story.

"Chuck," he whispered in awe, "this is amazing! You could be of more assistance to us than any of my overpaid PhD researchers. With your help, we could revolutionize how data is handled. And best of all," he added with a smile, "We can set you up somewhere with Ellie close by."

"Really? You could do that?"

"I can and I will. But we've got to move fast, Chuck. I want to get you out of here as quickly as possible—tonight."

"_Tonight_?"

"Yes, but I'll need you to trust me. Can you do that?"

Things had suddenly sped up to warp ten. Although he didn't know what Ankulos's plans would involve, he was keenly aware of Webb's threat to use deadly force. But did that matter? What would be the point of living, anyway, if he were stuck in some dungeon? He had to take any chance to escape.

Chuck nodded. "I trust you."

Harry grinned. "Good. Now I want you to get some rest because we won't be doing anything for a few hours. When things really quiet down for the night, we'll make our move. We'll leave here, take a private plane to D. C., and keep you in hiding until I can make the transfer unofficially official, if you know what I mean."

Chuck pulled his blanket up around his neck. He had a pretty good idea of what "unofficially official" meant—a clear indication that he'd spent too much time in the espionage business. Even that knowledge, though, couldn't hamper the joyful excitement that coursed through him at the thought of seeing his family again.

_Please let this work out, _he prayed silently. _I don't ask for much—well, I didn't ask for much until this whole brain computer thing happened—but please get me back home. I don't care how. Just get me back to Ellie and Devon. And Morgan. And maybe Anna, since Morgan wouldn't want to be without her. And, if You're feeling especially generous, maybe Lou. Please._

* * *

A/N: Fifteen alerts and _seven_ reviews? How can I write better if I don't get input? You are an integral part of the process. _I need you guys_. —your humble (and a little writer's blocked) author


	5. Greek Gifts

_Your Massacre of Me_

_Greek Gifts_

"Wake up. C'mon, Chuck, we gotta get going," Harry urged as he tapped the younger man's face. "Come _on_."

Chuck struggled to pull himself from sleep. He managed to open his eyes and pick up his head, then spent a brief moment trying to acclimate to his surroundings. "Wha'?"

"Get up, put on the suit, make yourself look like you haven't been in the hospital for three days; I'm gettin' you outta here, kid."

Chuck pulled off his covers, stumbled onto the floor, and accidentally ripped out his IV. "Ow! Ow, ow, ow," he mumbled as he tried to staunch the bleeding with his top. He grabbed the tape off of the IV's catheter and put it on the wound, which gave him the chance to put on the suit without bloodying it up.

"Comb your hair," Director Ankulos instructed after Chuck was dressed. "Then put this on." He handed Chuck an ID card. "You won't be in their system, but we shouldn't get hassled; my position will cover us."

"Wow. You're…well prepared. And where did you get a suit?"

"It's Dr. McHugh's."

Bartowski stopped mid-brush. "_What_?"

"Calm down; he's sound asleep at the moment. You'd look a bit suspicious trying to walk out of here in pajamas and what I can only assume is a rooster-inspired hairdo. And you'd be hard pressed to get by security without the magnetic strip on that ID, _Mr. Owens_."

Chuck looked down at the badge to confirm his new name. He combed his hair and then accepted the briefcase—presumably Dr. McHugh's—that Harry proffered. Chuck was beginning to wonder if he'd end up in the doctor's boxer shorts.

"Okay, I'll lead us to the exit. There are two checkpoints before you're allowed outside. Let me talk, but you'll have to look like you belong. Can you manage that?"

Chuck shrugged. "I've been lying to everyone for the last year; why stop now?"

Harry smiled sadly and started for the door with "Agent Owens" following. As they passed Dr. McHugh's office, Chuck felt a certain amount of discomfort at seeing the doctor slumped over his desk. Still, it served him right to be drugged and have his suit and briefcase stolen; maybe he'd stop drugging others. And helping steal their lives. And acting so nonchalant about it.

* * *

"It was 1983," Harry said suddenly as they approached the first checkpoint, "and I had an East German contact at Dresden University who knew of an electrical engineer who wanted to defect." He handed the guard his ID and indicated for Chuck to do the same. "Now, getting scientists to defect was a bit harder for us because the Soviets treated their R&D people well."

Chuck tried to look cool and pretended to pay rapt attention, but his stomach kept jumping into his chest.

"You're clear," the guard announced in monotone.

Harry nodded and continued their walk. "I made my way into East Berlin through our embassy and arranged with my contact for the engineer to visit the Berlin Technical University. I knew he'd probably have an agent or two keeping an eye on him, but I figured that, once I snuck him into the embassy, I'd get him a change of identity and just drive into the West. Of course, nothing ever goes as planned."

He pulled out his ID again when they came upon the second checkpoint.

"I met him at a nearby café. Well, by "met him," I mean that we went to the same café so that I could pass him some information. You can only imagine my surprise when he showed up with a wife and infant son. My contact hadn't mentioned that I'd need to sneak out a family—and infants aren't well-known for their cooperative nature."

"Uh, your hand's bleeding," the guard stated, pointing at Chuck.

All of the men looked down to see blood dripping off of Bartowski's fingertips.

"Holy crap," Chuck whispered and grabbed his hand.

A few awkward seconds passed before Harry threw his hands in the air. "For crying out loud! Owens, I told you to take care of that cut. If you can't even put on a bandage, how can I expect you to be of any use to the Agency?"

"I'm sorry!"

Harry shook his head and then put out his hand for their IDs, which the guard handed over with slight hesitation. "_Come_ on," he demanded and headed for the door. The guard quickly moved to open it. "You could at least apply some _pressure_," Harry quipped as he exited. "Can't even use a stapler," he muttered.

Chuck pressed down on his hand and followed quickly. Outside, he continued walking at Ankulos's hurried pace and remained quiet. After about twenty minutes, they came to a black car on the side of the road.

"This is us," Harry said.

"I can't believe we made it."

"_I'm_ certainly impressed. I gave a great performance back there. Sometimes I think I went into the wrong profession," Director Ankulos commented as he reached into his trench coat for the car's remote.

Chuck smiled broadly. "Well, I'm grateful you picked spying, or I never would have gotten out of there." He leaned back against the car, closed his eyes, and took a cleansing breath. "I can't believe I'm free," he murmured. "I'll get to see Ellie and Devon. D'you think I could see my friend, Morgan?"

"Yeah, about that. Y'see, when I was talking about my great performance back there, I meant my acting in the infirmary. That stuff with the guard was child's play; any first year agent could have made it up."

Chuck righted himself. "What do you mean? What acting in the infirmary?"

Harry smiled and it made Chuck incredibly uncomfortable. "You're amazing," he mused. "In my profession, I don't come across a lot of people who are as trusting as you are. Frankly, I find it refreshing." He pulled out a jet injector syringe. "Refreshing and easy to manipulate."

Chuck took a step away from Ankulos and the car. With the exception of Bryce's betrayal in college, he had never been so surprised. "What are you doing?"

"I'm kidnapping you, Chuck; I should have thought that was obvious." He moved quickly and pinned his victim against the car. "I've been waiting for you for so long now. My directorate had just finished the Intersect when Bryce Larkin stole it." Harry pushed the syringe against his victim's throat. "I _really_ _hate_ Bryce Larkin."

He relaxed the pressure against Chuck's throat. "But now I have my Intersect back."

"They'll nev—they'll never let you do this."

"But Chuck…I already have."

Mouth agape and terrified, Chuck stared at Ankulos without breathing. Then, abandoning every rational thought, he shoved Harry violently and ran in the direction of the holding facility.

Before he could even make it to the other side of the road, though, Harry tackled him to the ground, flipped him over, and pulled his arm back into an unnatural and painful position. Bartowski cried out in pain and spat gravel from his mouth. He struggled to get his arm free, which encouraged Ankulos to pull just a little harder, until the bone dislocated from its joint.

"Stop!"

Harry turned Chuck back around and kept him pinned to the street with his own body. It didn't matter, though, since Chuck couldn't move without causing his arm so much pain that he felt nauseas.

"Get off—get off me," he gasped, nearly in tears from pain. "Please!"

Harry leaned over the younger man and examined his neck. "You're gonna be okay; it's a fentanyl derivative," he elucidated as he pushed the syringe against the carotid artery. "You'll be out in a few seconds."

"No! Wait!"

"Don't worry," Ankulos said softly before he pulled the trigger. "It uses compressed air—no needle, no pain."

In the briefest second, a rush of warmth fled from the injector and into Chuck's brain. His vision blurred, his breathing slowed, his arm stopped hurting, and the world melted.

* * *

A/N: I'm sorry it's so short; I have terrible writer's block. And I'm sorry for haranguing everyone last chapter; seven years on and I'm still so very, very unsure of myself. Thanks. –your humble author

(Oh, and there will be no Chuck/Sarah; this is pure, Chuck-centered, angsty goodness.)


	6. Most Valuable Player

_Your Massacre of Me_

_Most Valuable Player_

"I wanna do it!"

"But it was my idea. Besides, _I_ bought everything."

"Yeah, but _I_ showed you the video on YouTube."

"That's because you spent your entire shift hiding from Big Mike and watching videos while the rest of us helped customers." Chuck paused. "Well, the rest of us except for Lester and Jeff, who built a fort out of refrigerator boxes and bubble wrap."

"Oh, come on!"

Chuck sighed and gave in. He handed the two-liter of Diet Coke and the package of Mentos to Morgan, who smiled gleefully. "Look, just be careful, okay? The reaction really does produce a lot of—"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Here," he said, squatting down to better handle the materials and giving the soda cap to Chuck, "you hold this. As soon as I drop the Mentos in, screw the cap back on as fast as you can. I don't want any air to escape."

Morgan carefully positioned the candies in his hand and his hand over the bottle, while Chuck waited anxiously to contain the reaction. When the last Mentos fell into the Diet Coke, Morgan jumped back and Chuck scrambled to replace the cap. Their combined efforts proved very successful.

"You ready?"

"Yeah, do it."

Morgan picked up the bottle and shook it vigorously, then vaulted it over his head. He spun around to watch the rocket explode, which it did, with terrific power. As soon as it hit the parking lot, the gases inside forced the cap off and turned their simple bottle of Diet Coke into a calorie-free missile.

They laughed and cheered for slightly less than a second, until the missile hit a target.

"Oh, crap," Morgan whispered. The friends stared at it in silence for a moment. "Isn't that Casey's car?"

Chuck's eyes doubled in size and he grabbed Morgan's arm. "We need to go. _Now_."

"Is Casey going to kill us?" Morgan asked as they ran from the scene of the crime.

"Not if he can't find us."

* * *

After a long battle with unconsciousness, Chuck became aware of quiet voices speaking rapidly in Spanish. From his spot curled up on a sofa, he opened his eyes and saw an ancient 60s television airing _The Simpsons_ in black and white.

_That's weird_, Chuck thought. _Why are they speaking Spanish_? _Did I miss this episode_?

He rolled onto his back, which set off a million phasers on maximum stun in his shoulder. Whatever pleasant druggy fog he'd had vanished and he gasped involuntarily, then stayed completely still until the pain subsided. For once, Chuck wished someone would offer him drugs.

"Drugs?" Harry asked as he peered over the sofa's armrest. "I popped her back into place while you were out, but that doesn't make the pain go away."

Chuck stared blankly at the older man as memories of his (_second_) abduction returned. _Well_, he thought, nearly as cynical as an agent. _There goes whatever shred of faith I had left in mankind_. _Mulder and Scully were right_;_ you can't trust _any_body_.

Ankulos moved from his chair to the front of the couch. "C'mon," he urged, helping Chuck sit up. He grabbed two pill bottles and a bottle of water off the table he'd been working at. "One's the for pain, the other's the antibiotic Dr. McHugh had you on. We wouldn't want a relapse—Venezuela is no place to get pneumonia."

"Venezuela?"

Vega, the room's only other occupant, scoffed audibly. "Yes, it's a little country south of Florida." He sat in front of a laptop at the same small table as Ankulos.

"Lay off," Harry chided. "Why don't you go get some food at the McDonald's. The kid hasn't eaten in ages. And pick up a couple of beers—" He took a quick look at Chuck. "—and a cola."

"You want the same thing you had earlier?"

Ankulos shook his head. "No, get me chicken this time. That Big Mac was awful; how do you screw up something so simple?"

Vega stood, holstered his gun and his jacket, and slipped out the door. Harry turned his attention to Chuck, smiled, and motioned for the younger man to take Vega's seat. After a moment of hesitation, Chuck moved to the table.

"How's your shoulder?"

Chuck stared at him. "Are you serious?"

"It's a perfectly reasonable question."

"You dislocated it!"

"And then I _re_located it." Harry sat back in his chair and folded his arms. "Also, let's not forget that I'm the one who broke you out of that government prison you'd gotten yourself into. If it weren't for me, you'd still be Mike Webb's little pet."

"At least he never dislocated my shoulder," Chuck mumbled.

They sat in silence until Ankulos cocked his head and asked, "What's it like to be wanted?" He didn't bother waiting for an answer, but leaned forward to continue talking. "There are people all over the world willing to pay _billions_ for you. I've had offers from Syria, Iran, Pakistan, China, Russia—each one vying for your company, desperately trying to outbid the others. People _want_ you, Chuck. They want what you have in your head. If you had any sense at all, you'd take advantage of this situation. You _were_ a prisoner of the United States, holed up in a human storage facility in Montana; you _could_ be China or Russia's most valuable asset, holed up in some sort of modern Xanadu. For your cooperation, they'd give you _anything_ you wanted: Beautiful women, fast cars, expensive wine—" He smiled devilishly. "Your family."

"My fam—" He stopped before finishing the word. "No, I can't help them!" he exclaimed.

"Why not?" Harry demanded. "So far, you've been kicked out of college, zapped by a computer, forced to work for the government, and imprisoned by your own country for _their_ misdeeds. In what way are you beholden to them?"

Chuck's expression changed from shocked to perplexed and back again a few times. Harry's logic made sense; it would serve everybody right if he took advantage of the Intersect. After all, it certainly hadn't benefited him within the confines of the law and at least he'd finally have his family together. Plus, Morgan really liked Chinese food.

"No! No," Chuck stated adamantly, loosening some of the hold Ankulos seemed to have on him. "I don't like what's happened to me, but I would _never_ cooperate with any of the countries you have…_bidding_ on me. I won't be a tool for you or anybody else. And I'll do whatever I have to to stop you," he said with feigned conviction.

Harry stood up. "You're forgetting something, Chuck," he said in the gentlest, most threatening tone Chuck had ever heard. "Don't you remember? You told me all about Ellie." Harry moved in closer. "I know you're from Los Angeles. It wouldn't be too difficult to locate a _Doctor_ Ellie Bartowski in that city." He circled Chuck and lightly gripped the younger man's shoulders. "I bet she rents an apartment. I bet her name is on the lease," Harry whispered into Chuck's ear. "I bet she opens the door to just about anyone who knocks on it. Does she do that, Chuck? Is she a trusting girl, your big sister?"

Chuck couldn't breathe. "There are agents watching her."

"And there were agents watching you, too. It isn't as difficult as you think to put a bullet in someone's head or slit her throat. In fact, it's just a phone call away." He sat back down. "If you want to stop me, Chuck, you'd better kill me, because the minute you escape is the same minute you sign Ellie's death sentence. Do you want to be an only child?"

Before Chuck could have an official meltdown, Vega returned bearing food. He stood in the doorway with two bags and stared at the other occupants.

"Am I interrupting?"

"No, no. I was just explaining the situation to our young friend. I don't think we'll be having much resistance. Do you?" he asked, turning to Chuck.

Chuck stared at Harry for a moment before lowering his eyes. "No," he whispered.

Vega set the bags and drinks on the table. "The Russian contact called me with a new offer," he told Ankulos. "They doubled their previous bid to 408 billion on the condition that you make the Intersect technology available to them. They're also willing to deliver the payment in any format we want—dollars, gold, diamonds, a combination."

"Did you contact the Chinese?"

"I did. They're conferring right now. I still don't know how the other countries got information about this, but I bet there'll be a purge in their intelligence agencies soon. Have you even thought about entertaining offers from other countries?"

"Not a chance. Nobody else can divert 400 billion dollars without getting noticed—except, maybe, the Saudis. But we should really stay away from the petrol dollars; religious fanatics are much more difficult to deal with than ideological fanatics and corrupt party members."

"Well, I've got my hopes pinned on China. They're practically frothing at the mouth to become a super power."

"Just don't underestimate the Russians; memories of former glory can be a powerful motivator."

Both men shoveled food into their mouths while Chuck stared at his plate. His brain had gone beyond _overwhelmed_ and was somewhere orbiting Bizarro World.

Vega's cell phone rang and he grabbed it from his pocket. "The Chinese," he told Harry before getting up and walking out of the room.

"How did you find me?" Chuck asked after Vega had left.

Proud of himself, Harry grinned widely. "One of the greatest assets in my line of business is regulations; there are regulations for everything—from paperwork to acquisition staples to methods for containing a breach of security. Not only are our regulations time-tested and dependable, but they're well-known by every security organization in the United States. When Vega escaped, he called me immediately to relay information about you and then disappeared down here to begin facilitating negotiations. All I had to do was wait patiently and find out which safe places had recently acquired a new guest. As soon as I learned, I arranged to visit that facility—ostensibly for research purposes. The moment Mike Webb introduced us, I knew you were the Intersect."

"So, when they sent me to the safe house…"

"They were doing exactly what I knew they would."

Chuck sagged against his chair. "And all the stuff you told me there? Getting sick in fifth grade and not speaking to your sister for seven years? Were they all lies?"

"No, I really did get sick in fifth grade, but that's about it. I don't have any sisters, my mother is alive and well, I faked the heart attack with medication, and Dr. McHugh wasn't so much "sound asleep" as "dead," which is something of a pity; he did, technically, save my life."

"You killed him?"

Harry smiled, but couldn't refrain from rolling his eyes. "How else was I supposed to get his suit?"

"You could have just knocked him out."

"I _did_. And then I took off his suit and then I shot him. Try to understand this, Chuck: I'm only interested in money and power. I will destroy anything that comes between me and those two things." Harry narrowed his eyes, the effect of which caused Chuck to unconsciously move back in his seat. "I can break your neck and then go have a latte at Starbucks; it doesn't disturb in the least because I don't have any empathy; I don't have any humanity, I'm not guided by a moral compass. To me, your life is only as valuable as what China and Russia are willing to pay."

Chuck, who had been staring, aghast, at Ankulos, diverted his eyes and tried to fight the rising sense of panic in his esophagus. Oddly, itching, dizziness, and confusion accompanied the anxiety.

"750 billion!" Vega announced triumphantly when he reentered the room. "I got China to give me their highest possible offer, then compared it to Russia's. As long as we include all Intersect technology, China is prepared to hand over three-quarters of a trillion United States dollars in any currency or monetary standard. They'll deposit it in any bank accounts we want." He stood, grinning uncontrollably, in front of Harry and Chuck.

"Wow," Ankulos whispered. He tilted his head and frowned slightly. "Y'know, I was kinda hoping for an even trillion."

"A trillion? Harry, their offer is over ten times their annual military budget and I've already accepted it. If you want to renegotiate—"

"Don't be ridiculous. I'd be hard-pressed to blow 500 billion dollars in a lifetime. Besides, they know Russia can't beat that." He turned to the Intersect. "Well, I must say, I've never held anyone's life as dear as I hold yours, Chuck. You are exquisitely valuable."

Chuck lifted his head to look at Ankulos and felt the room spin around. He swayed slightly in his chair. "You don't know what real value is."

Harry rolled his eyes again and waved a hand in Bartowski's direction. "Get him back on the couch," he instructed Vega. "The Oxycodone is kicking in."

"Should I restrain him?" Vega asked as he hauled Chuck out of his chair.

"No, he won't try anything." Harry turned to his computer. "I've got what _he_ values at knife point."

* * *

Ennui


	7. Gang Aft Agley

_Your Massacre of Me_

_Gang Aft Agley_

"I am _so flippin' proud_ of you!" Ellie exclaimed as she walked into Chuck's dorm room. "How many sisters can say that their brother goes to Stanford on a full scholarship?"

Chuck dragged his two suitcases into the room. "Well, at least one." He made a final heave and let the luggage drop. "Of course, UCLA is giving you 80,000 to study medicine there _after_ all the scholarships you got for you bachelor's degree."

Ellie grinned at him. "Yeah, I am pretty awesome."

They worked together, quietly unpacking the bags. Ellie nudged the duffel bag closer to Chuck when it turned out to contain his underclothes. The sight didn't bother _her_, but he quickly flung a shirt over the boxers.

"You bummed out that dad couldn't come?" she asked as they made his bed.

"Do I wish he were here to stand around awkwardly and not talk to me? Not really. But I'm sorry you had to make the drive; I know you've got a lot to do with starting med school."

She threw his pillow at his head. "Don't be a dork. You know I would have come anyway. And dad…he just doesn't know how to relate to you. You're computers, Star Wars, and ultimate Frisbee; he's construction, John Wayne, and baseball. The only thing you have in common is DNA."

of the bed. "Hey, you're not gonna get all weepy when it's time to go, are you?"

"Like a big 'ole baby. I mean, what am I gonna do without someone to finish my orange-flavored chicken when I get full? Besides, you'll get choked up later when there's no sister to watch _Voyager_ with or fix supper or listen to how your day went." She smiled kindly. "It might not mean anything yet, but when you get homesick, I'm only a phone call away."

Chuck tried to pretend that he didn't really care. "You might be a phone call away, but who's gonna pay for my Panda Express when I'm too cheap to shell out for it?"

"You'll just have to make friends with the kids who _don't_ need a scholarship." She grabbed her purse and headed for the door. "C'mon, let's go get you some food before you start whining."

"How do you _know_ these things?" he asked as he followed her out. "Can you read minds?"

* * *

"Oh," Chuck moaned as he woke up. "Oh, my head." He shielded his eyes against the daylight and tried to suppress the bile in his stomach, but it wouldn't stay down. "I feel sick," he said weakly.

Ankulos and Vega shared a look before Ankulos stood up. "That would be the Oxycodone's _side-effects_ kicking in. I'll take him to the bathroom, you keep working."

In the bathroom, Chuck got intimate with the toilet bowl.

"You should have eaten that McDonald's last night."

Chuck ignored him, forced himself to stand, and wobbled to the sink. He refused to let the pain in his shoulder and head show on his face. Instead, he rinsed out his mouth and concentrated on subduing the nausea.

"When does all this end?" he asked dispassionately as he leaned against the sink.

Harry raised his eyebrows. Was Chuck feigning hopelessness, or had he really stopped caring? "Two Chinese agents will be here tomorrow night. Venezuela's border's are fairly permeable, especially for fellow socialists." He put a hand on his prisoner's back. "But this won't end overseas, Chuck—not until you make peace with it."

Chuck let his head drop, but didn't say anything.

"C'mon, you need to eat."

"I'm not hungry."

Harry moved his hand to Chuck's shoulder and gripped it cruelly. The younger man nearly fell to the floor from pain. "I wasn't putting it out there for discussion," Ankulos stated softly. "Now go sit on the couch and do what you're told or I'll inform the Chinese that you need a lot of _persuading_ to share information. Do you understand?"

Chuck slowly released his death grip on the sink and, with his eyes glued to the floor, walked out of the bathroom. Usually hopeful and optimistic, he was beginning to truly lose faith in any chance of a rescue—and he certainly couldn't escape. Not without getting Ellie killed.

On the sofa, Chuck stared at the telenovela and forced himself to eat the food he'd been given. Time passed slowly, made longer by a two-hour speech by Hugo Chavez that Chuck couldn't understand very well. The president was animated, incredibly bombastic, and vaguely reminded Chuck of a professor he'd once had who continued lecturing long after the class should have ended.

He dozed off occasionally, still exhausted because of his waning pneumonia and poor, drug-induced sleep. He positioned himself carefully so any coughing wouldn't aggravate his shoulder.

The night before, Chuck couldn't help noticing that Vega's bag—seated near his feet—contained a ludicrous number of cell phones. Presumably, this kept his many calls to Russia and China from being traced.

After spending endless minutes weighing his options, Chuck rose slowly from the sofa and shuffled to the empty chair at the table. He sat down and waited nervously for one of his two captors to look up at him.

"Yes?" Ankulos asked eventually.

Chuck cleared his throat. "I was, um, kind of hoping you had some more food…and maybe something to drink." A moment passed before he added, "Please?"

Ankulos sighed and looked over at Vega. "You almost done?"

"In a second, yeah."

"All right. I've got a little more to go. Wrap yours up and then go get some food—stick with plain stuff for Mr. Opioid Intolerance. And grab a few more liters of water."

Vega nodded, then finished typing before he left. In the sparse living/dining room, Harry resumed programming while Chuck laid his forearm on the table and then carefully rested his head on it. He let the other limb dangle next to Vega's open bag.

Careful to make as few movements and as little sound as possible, Chuck snaked his hand into the bag and surreptitiously took hold of a cell phone. He held it for at least a minute as he frantically tried to decide where to hide it. Eventually, he slipped it between his wrist and the buttoned cuff of (Dr. McHugh's) dress shirt.

Internally fighting off tsunamis of panic, Chuck calmly lifted his head. "Can I use the bathroom?"

Harry looked over, then pondered the question. He considered Chuck's cunning and weighed it against the bathroom's ability to supply a tactical advantage. However, with only a tiny air vent and a bar of soap, Chuck would be hard pressed to fashion a weapon or escape.

"Okay, c'mon."

Chuck hesitated. "Are you…going in…with me?"

"No," Harry said as he headed for the bathroom. "That's revolting. I'm going to walk you there and wait outside because I'd have to be a complete idiot to give you the run of the apartment. Frankly, you're lucky I don't keep you in a giant safe deposit box inside an armored car."

Once behind the closed door, Chuck hastily unbuttoned his cuff and took out the phone. He crouched down beside the bathtub and dialed Ellie's cell phone. After five rings, Chuck remembered that he needed an international calling code to reach anyone outside of Venezuela. Unfortunately, it had been a long time since his study abroad trip with Bryce to Japan. He'd called Jill twice a week for two months, but now the calling code completely escaped him.

One! The code ended in _one_.

He paused.

It had two other numbers.

Chuck hit his head a couple times. _C'mon, you idiot_! _You big, stupidy, idiot…it was such a simple number…no, no, that's the area code…oh, come _on…_wait…James bond…double O_! _Zero, zero, one_!

He redialed Ellie's number, this time including the international and area codes. After the sixth ring, the call went to voicemail.

"Hi, this is Ellie Bartowski. I can't answer right now, but I promise to call you back as soon as possible. Remember to leave your name and number after the beep!"

Chuck's breath caught in his throat as he listened to his sister's voice. Even after the beep, he struggled to form words.

"Get away," he whispered. "Leave Los Angles _now_. Ellie, it's me—I'm not dead, but you're in danger if you don't—"

The door splintered and swung open when Harry slammed his body against it. He stalked into the room as Chuck scrambled to his feet. Terrified, the younger man didn't even think to hide the phone, which Ankulos knocked from his hand. The rogue agent then shattered it under his foot. He grabbed Chuck and dragged him back to the living room.

"I'm impressed."

"Please—"

"I didn't think you would be that stupid."

"I didn't try to escape!"

Harry raised his hand to silence Chuck. "Clearly, I underestimated you; that was my mistake and I'll deal with the consequences. But who will deal with _your_ consequences? Since I can't hurt _you_, I'll have to hurt someone else," he said coolly as he sat down at the table.

"_Please don't_."

Ankulos clasped his hands together and rested his head on them. "I don't have to have your sister _killed_; that's a bit much for just a phone call. I suppose I could just order something broken." He cocked his head thoughtfully, then looked at Chuck. "She's not a _really_ attractive woman, is she? I mean, I won't be adding to the sex offender registry, will I?"

Chuck raced over to Ankulos and fell to the floor. "Don't! Please!" he begged, oblivious to his own humiliation. "I promise, I won't do anything again—I'll do whatever you want. I'll cooperate! Just don't hurt Ellie. Please, _please_ don't hurt her." He struggled to breathe and beat back tears. "I will do _whatever you want_, but _please_…_don't hurt Ellie_."

Vega entered to find the Intersect kneeling in front of Ankulos, who was silently pondering their captive.

"What'd I miss?"

Harry looked up. "You missed his call home."

"_What_?"

"Don't worry; we already discussed it and we've come to the conclusion that it's bad for the health of Bartowskis everywhere." He stood up and walked behind his chair. "Sit here, Chuck. I want to show you something."

Bartowski took a moment to prepare himself before standing. Expecting another display of his captor's ruthlessness, he sat down wearily at Harry's laptop. He was very nearly at his limit for stress.

"I was appointed to head MK-HALO seven years ago, right before the 9/11 attacks, Ankulos began. "After the dust settled and everyone in the intelligence community got a proper chewing out for something that wasn't our fault, one of my researchers came to me with an old, shelved idea from the Cold War. They'd intended to use the Intersect concept to facilitate language learning, but the right technology didn't exist in the '80s."

He sat down at the table and talked directly to Chuck. "We'd come a long way by 2001 and I took the idea up the ladder, got approval, and began fomenting what I knew would the most valuable computer program of all time. While my PhDs labored, I recruited a few people from the CIA to start looking into other, more lucrative uses of the program." He nodded at his partner. "Vega was one—nearly the best one. But I had a second agent with far better computer skills and a lot more cunning."

"Bryce," Chuck whispered.

Harry's face warped with fury. "_Bryce_. He didn't know; I recruited him through Vega. And I sure as hell didn't realize he was a rogue double-agent until he had completely destroyed every trace of the program that's now in your head." Ankulos placed a finger against Chuck's forehead. "You are all that's left of the original. I'm sure they are, even now, trying to recreate it, but it'll take years."

He stood back up. "In the meantime, the Chinese want proof that you are who I say you are—and that you're still capable of learning. So, could I get you to read what's on the monitor for me?"

Chuck's brow furrowed, but he turned to look at the laptop's screen. For a moment, all he saw was a file requesting to be run. Then, for a tiny fraction of a second, he caught sight of a picture, but it disappeared instantly into a blur of other images that eventually faded to black.

Ankulos and Vega watched quietly as the Intersect technology downloaded new data into Chuck's brain. It was only a miniscule amount—practically nothing, compared to the first download. However, it contained a few weakly classified Chinese documents and some Chinese language data. Combined, they would be a simple way for the Chinese agents to test their purchase.

When the download ended, neither agent managed to catch Chuck as he fell out of the chair. Having never seen it properly used before, they didn't anticipate the loss of consciousness.

"Is he okay?" Vega asked, jumping out of his chair.

Harry leaned over Chuck and checked his eyes and pulse. "He isn't dead. I think it might have overloaded his circuits, so to speak. Help me get him back on the couch."

"I hope it worked."

Harry nodded. "Me, too. Because if I don't get what I want, I'm taking everybody down with me—starting with Mr. Bartowski." He turned to Vega. "So, what'd you get?"

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	8. Hit Me with Your Best Shot

_Your Massacre of Me_

_Hit Me with Your Best Shot_

Chuck awoke during the night from a dreamless sleep. He could sense the glow of the light from the TV and a laptop. The former emitted hushed voices speaking Spanish; the latter hummed in an all-too-familiar way.

In a way, he understood where Sarah, Casey, and their respective agencies were coming from. They had foreseen the danger. They'd been trying to do the right thing—to minimize damages in a bad situation.

It didn't matter, though. Hate, rage, terror, and grief had taken over; he could feel them buzzing around. They ate away at his brain, clogged up his chest, gnawed at his stomach. In a few parts of his being, though, they'd corroded everything down to resignation. He realized that, soon, he'd have to stop fighting and just choose.

Let Ankulos win or take the Intersect to his grave.

* * *

"Well?" Harry asked after Choke awoke in the morning.

"Well _what_?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "_Well_, was the download successful? Can you answer their questions? Does the Chinese make sense?"

"It doesn't work like that." Chuck took a bite from his banana. "Don't you know how your own program functions?"

"We'd love to," Vega replied bitterly, "but you're the first—and only—person to interface with it directly; we weren't even sure we coded the files from the Chinese properly." He paused for a moment, then inquired, "How does it function?"

Chuck thought for a moment. "It isn't like a database; you can't Google a keyword at will. Instead, visual or auditory input triggers some sort of memory function and all relevant data are uploaded. The process happens very quickly. It makes my head hurt."

"So how will the Chinese agents test you? They're supposed to be here within the hour."

"I don't know; I don't really care."

"You ought to; they'll kill all of us if they think they've been cheated."

Unconcerned, Harry dismissed the subject with a wave of his hand. "There's nothing we can do until the Chinese come. We might as well relax," he decided as he refilled his coffee mug from the pot on the table. He topped off Vega's cup and both men drank in silence until Vega excused himself.

"Getting excited?" Harry asked his prisoner.

"Is there any chance you could forego taunting me?"

Harry shrugged. "Just trying to make small talk. _I'm_ excited."

Vega returned a moment later carrying a gun. He aimed it at Ankulos and motioned for the other man to stand up.

"Something on your mind?" Ankulos asked calmly.

"I've been thinking about our current arrangement. It strikes me that I've done most of the hard work, but you're getting most of the money."

"_You've_ done most of the hard work?"

"I recruited Larkin; I tracked down his little friend and spent five months being interrogated in a CIA hellhole; I negotiated with the Chinese and Russians; I even did most of the programming for the Chinese test. Meanwhile, you were sitting at your desk in D.C. babysitting computer nerds."

"Yeah, until you let Larkin run away with the program and then _got caught_ trying to retrieve the Intersect. That left _me_ to infiltrate a storage facility, gain everyone's trust, fake a heart attack, and fly a private jet from Montana to Venezuela. Besides, you're not nearly cunning enough to deserve three quarters of a trillion dollars."

Harry smirked as he walked back to his chair. "It came to my attention much earlier that you might not be content with only one third of our payment. The truth is, I'm not very good at sharing, either. Any normal person would realize that he couldn't possibly spend 500 billion dollars in a lifetime, but it's the principle of the thing, Joseph." Harry sat down. "Which is why I spiked your coffee with a curare derivative." He looked at his watch. "Y'know, it really should have started to take effect by now."

Vega's eyes widened and he angrily pulled the trigger of his gun. Smoke came out of the silencer, but Ankulos remained unscathed.

"I _may_ have replaced your bullets with blanks, as well."

Vega dropped the gun and stumbled backward against the couch. He fell, nearly landing on Chuck, who jumped off of the sofa.

Harry stood and walked over to Chuck. "Curare," he explained, "is a muscle relaxant. South American tribes used it for hundreds of years on the tips of their arrows. They used it to hunt for food. Why don't you list some important muscles for the class, Mr. Bartowski."

Chuck stared in horror at Vega, who lay wide-eyed and unmoving. His chest neither rose nor fell.

"His lungs," Chuck whispered. "His heart."

"Yes, both of them, but not his brain. He's fully alert—aware of everything. He can hear us and see us and he probably feels the terrifying burn of suffocation in his lungs as his brain screams for oxygen. In fact, I would guess that our Mr. Vega is impotently cursing me with his last thoughts."

After a few minutes, when Ankulos felt enough time had passed, he walked over to his former partner and grabbed the man under his arms. "You get his feet," he instructed Chuck.

"_What_?"

"You don't have to act indignant; it's not like I killed your best friend. Now grab his feet and help me move him to the back room or you're gonna have to share the couch with a corpse."

Chuck reluctantly picked up Vega's legs and helped lug him into the apartment's bedroom. The weight made the throbbing in his shoulder flare, but he preferred the pain to Vega's dead body.

Chuck sat down in his usual spot and reflected on the murder he had just witnessed. It disturbed him that he didn't feel aghast at the loss of life. In fact, Vega's death seemed like an appropriate punishment for his crimes. The realization of his newfound callousness upset Chuck more than the murder.

As he sat on the couch, Chuck couldn't help noticing a rather large cockroach that came crawling under the door. He grimaced and positioned himself Indian-style on the couch so the insect couldn't crawl up his legs.

Something seemed odd about it, though. He'd seen plenty of cockroaches in college and this one didn't match. Its body reminded Chuck of the puzzles that contain duplicates of a single image with one of them modified in some small way; he'd always been able to spot the different one immediately. Moreover, it kept stopping and turning in a circle before advancing further into the room. It scuttled over to Ankulos, then to the sofa.

When it stopped before him, Chuck bent over to get a closer. Right when he realized the bug was a covert surveillance device, Ankulos jumped from his chair, crushed the cockroach under foot, and then pulled Chuck off the couch and into a choke hold. At the same time, someone's foot connected with the apartment's door and it burst open.

"Let him go!"

"You've _got_ to be kidding me!"

Chuck stared in disbelief at Bryce, who stood in the doorway with his gun drawn. He couldn't have been more surprised unless it had been Ellie charging into the room.

"Just give up!" Bryce demanded. "I've already taken care of your Chinese contacts and U.S. forces are already on the ground."

"Do you have _any_ idea the lengths I have gone to to secure the Intersect? I started planning this before you even joined the Agency and I'll be damned if I'm gonna just roll over and give up now!"

"I won't hesitate to kill both of you."

Ankulos smiled devilishly. "Is that so? Are you here to finish the job, then? First you took his future, then you took his freedom, and now you're gonna take his life. With friends like him, Chuck, you don't even need enemies like me."

"I've made my peace," Chuck replied, looking at Bryce.

Bryce's face betrayed his turmoil. He hadn't worked so hard and come so far just to kill his best friend. But he couldn't exactly allow the Intersect to fall into the hands of another nation. The good of the many had to outweigh the good of the one. That being the case, Bryce aimed carefully at Ankulos's arm, which circled Bartowski's neck. Shooting Ankulos was the only chance of saving Chuck _and_ the Intersect. Unfortunately, it also risked killing Chuck.

During the standoff, as Bryce reached his decision, Harry sensed the impending danger and grew more tense. Chuck saw Harry's finger tighten on the trigger and panicked, jostling them both and causing the bullet from Harry's gun to hit Bryce in the chest instead of the head. It also caused the bullet from Bryce's gun to hit Chuck in his clavicle instead of Ankulos in his arm.

Bryce stumbled backward and hit his head on the corner of a small table as he fell. He didn't move. Meanwhile, Chuck managed to tackle Harry, whose gun was knocked to the other side of the room. Chuck tried to get up so he could retrieve the weapon, but Ankulos kicked the back of his knee and sent Bartowski tumbling. Before Chuck could even rise to his hands and knees, Harry hauled the younger man up by his shirt and then punched him in his side, breaking a rib. Chuck doubled over but remained in Ankulos's grip as he moved them both toward his gun.

"I hope those U.S. forces don't come for a few minutes," Harry seethed as he delivered another blow to Chuck's ribs. "Because I _really_ want you to suffer." Chuck tried to shield himself or escape, but Harry had decades of fighting experience and a steel grip. The next punch easily bruised a kidney. The following one fractured his eye socket.

"I worked _so hard_!" Ankulos yelled. "I stayed low and avoided suspicion, gave myself a heart attack, cultivated every relationship that led me here—I did everything right! I deserve my money!"

Ankulos unloaded his frustrations on the younger man before he threw him to the ground. He then reached down and picked up his gun. "You owe me 750 billion dollars worth of hard work, effort, time, and pain, and if I can't collect on it with your life, I'll take what little joy I can from your death."

Chuck closed the one eye he could see out of and waited to be shot. The thud that followed, however, surprised him and he opened his eye to see Ankulos lying on the floor. Across the room, Agent Larkin sat on the ground with a smoking gun.

Although still a little woozy, Bryce got up and rushed over to his friend, then stopped short when he saw the extent of the damage. Blood dripped from Chuck's nose and mixed with the blood that dribbled from his mouth. His right eye was swollen completely shut and the left one only allowed for a slit of vision. The entire right side of his shirt was bright red from the gunshot wound. Truthfully, he looked dead.

"Chuck?" Bryce whispered as he got down next to his friend. "Chuck, say something; tell me you're okay."

"Okay," Chuck murmured, trying to keep from moving any muscles in his face. "Okay now." He coughed on some of the blood, which sent waves of pain throughout his body. After the agony receded, he looked at Bryce. "I thought…he kill you."

The other man smiled and pulled back his shirt to reveal a bulletproof vest. "You're not the only person who can strap one of these on." His smile faded. "If I just hadn't hit my head—and I nearly shot you in the neck!" He sighed. "But you saved my life; he was aiming for my head and you came through. Again."

Chuck closed his eye. Although he was starting to feel chilled, the pain in his body was fading. "Tell Ellie I'm sorry…I broke my promise."

"You broke your promise?" Bryce repeated softly, confused by the odd request. "What promise? I can't talk to Ellie, Chuck; she thinks I'm dead."

"Made my peace," he mumbled. "S'okay."

A moment passed before the message became clear. "No!" Larkin yelled. "No! You are not giving up! Chuck, I can _hear_ help coming—they're running up the stairs!" They were. United States agents bounded up the stairs of the building like a herd of water buffalo. "Come on! You're safe now! You don't _have_ to die!"

Chuck's head lolled to the side.

Bryce grabbed his friend's hand. "Chuck, I will get you home. I'll do _whatever it takes_. I'll commandeer a spaceship, blow up some Klingons, and take you to Vulcan for fal-tor-pan. Just please," he begged desperately, "_please don't die_." As the U.S. forces burst into the room, Bryce fell against the wall next to his motionless friend.

"I took everything," he whispered.

* * *

I'm sorry it took so long to post this; I have had _zero_ desire to write.

Review, don't review. Whatever.


	9. DON'T PANIC

_Your Massacre of Me_

_DON'T PANIC_

**PLEASE READ**

**PLEASE READ**

**PLEASE READ**

1. Please accept my sincere apologies for my poor attitude. I'm very sorry that I didn't communicate kindly in some of my author's notes.

2. I hope you enjoy the rest of the story. I tried to keep the characters real, but it can be hard to imagine how someone would feel about and respond to some of these circumstances.

3. If Zachary Levi _really is_ a Christ-follower, I call dibs. (I'd pull light out of a black hole just to see his smile.)

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**PLEASE READ**

**PLEASE READ**

* * *

Chuck sat back at his desk and rubbed his eyes. When his vision cleared, he looked at the clock and sighed. It was ten at night, which meant he'd been studying for nearly five straight hours.

"Still hard at work, I see," Bryce observed as he entered their room.

"Yeah, well, the next time I decide to take nineteen credits, shoot me."

"You're the one who suddenly decided to dual major. Besides, I don't know what you're so worried about; you always do great. You could probably fail your finals and still four-point the classes." He flopped down on his bed. "How'd your algorithms and data structures final go?"

Chuck moved to his own bed. "I dunno. I was so tired that the words kept turning 3-D on the pages. At least I only have two more. How about you? How was your calc test?"

Bryce shrugged. "I know I got at least one of the problems wrong, but I'll probably get credit for the work. Brandenburg's pretty cool about that stuff. He even brought coffee and donuts for everybody."

"Ugh, don't mention coffee. I've had, like, twenty cups today."

"Run outta Mountain Dew?"

"Yeah. I didn't feel like going to—" His cell phone went off before he could finish his sentence.

"Hello?" Chuck asked after fishing the phone out of his pocket. "Hey, Ellie…I'm in my room." He furrowed his brow. "Yeah. Why?"

Bryce watched his friend, whose face slowly transformed from confusion to nervousness and then shock.

"But what—I mean…is he okay? Is he hurt?" Chuck fell silent again as he listened to his sister. His breath caught in his throat and Bryce could see his friend's eyes grow larger. "Ellie…okay, but—but I—I have tests…I know, I know! I'm sorry! I don't—I don't know what to do." He started to choke up. "I don't know what to do…"

Bryce got up and took the cell phone.

"Ellie, it's Bryce; what's going on?"

He heard her take a deep breath before explaining, "Our dad was in a car accident…he didn't make it." She took a few more calming breaths. "Chuck needs to tell his professors what happened and come home right away. A friend of mine, Devon, offered to come get him."

"No, no; I'll email his profs and drive him down tonight."

"But you've got finals, too."

"Don't worry about it. I've got everything covered on this end. We'll be at your house by morning."

"Thank you," she whispered. "Take care of him."

"I've got his back," Bryce replied. "_Always_."

* * *

Bryce woke up in the hospital and looked around his room. The last thing he remembered was…Venezuela!

He had burst into the room and found Ankulos using Chuck as a shield. Then he shot his gun and…and he woke up on the floor and heard Ankulos yelling about money and work and preparing to kill Chuck. _But I shot him first_, Bryce remembered. _I shot him and went over to Chuck, who…_

"No. Oh, no," Bryce moaned softly. It had been too late.

But what had happened after backup arrived? Everything after Chuck's death was a blank.

Bryce disconnected himself from his IV and turned off the monitoring equipment. He got as far as the doorway when the guard outside his room noticed him.

"You aren't supposed to be up, sir."

"Where am I?"

"You need to get back in bed immediately, sir."

"Just tell me where I am!"

"Sir, if you don't get back in your room, I'll be forced to restrain you."

"I'm not going anywhere until you answer my question!"

Casey appeared suddenly and motioned for the guard to leave them. He ushered Bryce back into the room and closed the door. "You're a lot less annoying when you're unconscious."

"Where am I?"

Casey decided against any further insults. "Guantanamo. They've got good medical facilities."

"What do _I_ need a doctor for?"

"Special forces thought you could use some medical care when they couldn't wake you up. You've been unconscious for the past—" he glanced at his watch "—eighteen hours. The doctors thought you might not wake up at all."

Bryce stared pensively at the wall and reflected on his failure. So many mistakes; so much tragedy. He'd never be able to forgive himself for Chuck's death. _It should have been me_. Bryce teared up. _It should have been _me; I'm_ responsible for this. Chuck, I would give anything to trade places with you. I'm so sorry_.

"You should get some more rest," Casey said gruffly, unnerved by the watery glint in Bryce's eyes. He stood up and prepared to leave.

"What are you even doing here?"

"What do you mean?"

"I figured you'd have had yourself reassigned as quickly as possible. You probably aren't even fazed," he scoffed. "Good 'ole John Casey—doesn't care who lives or dies just so long as the job gets done."

Casey balled up his fists. "Y'know, I'm getting pretty sick and tired of these accusations. Is there something you want to get off your chest, Larkin?"

"Chuck was nothing but nice to you! He put up with everything we forced him into and didn't even complain. You could at least show a _little_ sadness that he was killed! Why doesn't that _upset_ you?" he demanded.

Casey, prepared to tear into Bryce, paused. "Wait. What?"

"You could at least acknowledge that you failed to protect him."

John stared at Bryce for a moment and considered the best way to respond. He actually felt sorry for the other agent. "Chuck isn't dead."

"…What?"

"Chuck isn't dead. I mean, he was at one point, but they got his heart started again. The doctors are hopeful he'll pull through."

Bryce suddenly looked as if he would pass out. He lay down in his bed for the support. "He's alive? I thought—he stopped talking and he looked like…he looked dead." Larkin turned to Casey. "What're his odds?"

"The doctors didn't say."

"What do you think?"

"I'm not a doctor, but Bartowski doesn't give up easily; he'll keep fighting…" Casey averted gaze. "If there's something to fight for."

* * *

"You should be in bed," Sarah murmured.

Bryce shrugged and continued to stare at his friend. "I'm fine."

Sarah remained quiet and kept her eyes on Chuck, but she allowed her hand to brush against Bryce's. His fingers sought hers and they stood there until Sarah led him to one of the room's chairs. She sat beside him on the doctor's rolling stool.

"That was a pretty outstanding rescue operation you pulled off," she commented. "How did you manage to find him? We weren't even sure what hemisphere to start looking in."

"Just lucky, I guess." He spoke in monotone and avoided eye contact. "What're his injuries?"

Sarah sighed. She didn't want to answer, but that would only aggravate Bryce further. "Broken nose." She took a calming breath. "Two missing teeth, fractured eye socket, fractured wrist, shattered clavicle, contused lungs, five fractured ribs, bruises and cuts everywhere. They removed his left kidney and had to repair a hernia in his diaphragm that was letting stuff in his stomach go into his chest. There was a lot of blood loss."

Seconds ticked by before Bryce could speak. "I have to tell you something," he whispered. "…We let Vega escape."

"You what?"

"Graham and I decided to make it possible for Vega to escape custody. We figured he would go to his contact in the Agency and then we'd get the senior agent. We didn't know it was Harry Ankulos or that he'd be so cunning. Vega never contacted him in any typical handler methods, though; he just disappeared from the country. I went to track him down while Graham informed you to take Chuck underground. Ankulos's plan couldn't have been any more brilliant," he said bitterly. "And we couldn't have made it any easier for him."

Bryce leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. "Y'know, Chuck and I hit it off right away at Stanford. After a few weeks, it felt as though we'd been friends our whole lives. During that first Thanksgiving break, he invited me to his home because my parents were in Europe." He chuckled softly. "There I was, some rich kid from Boston who'd spent his Thanksgivings at the country club, witnessing hugs and laughter and Christmas music and cooking. They sucked me right in, like I'd suddenly become a member of the family. And Ellie and Chuck! I couldn't believe how they got on like best friends. I'd never had any siblings," he admitted. "Until then."

He fished the letter to Ellie out of his pocket and handed it to Sarah. "I found it in the pocket of his trousers. He must have written it to her when he was underground." He gave her some time to read and rested his eyes.

Sarah's spirit sank lower and lower with each passing sentence. It just got so easy to use Chuck. He never shied away from helping people—always wanted to do the right thing (even if "the right thing" conflicted with a mission). She had never _really_ considered how it all affected him; like Bryce and Casey, she'd been trained to disregard emotions in favor of the greater good. But how much _bad_ did one person have to suffer for everyone else's _good_?

She handed the letter back.

"I was so relieved when I found out he hadn't died," Bryce reflected. "I thought I was responsible for his death. Now…I think I might be responsible for something worse."

* * *

"If Dr. Perfect gives me one more piece of advice or meaningless platitude, I'll strangle him with his stethoscope," Chuck warned his sister.

"Oh, Chuck, Devon's just trying to be kind. He can't understand what you're going through." She sighed and offered her brother an apologetic smile. "But I'll ask him to refrain."

Chuck slumped a little further down in his bed and regretted saying anything about Ellie's boyfriend. She was right, of course; Devon only wanted to help. Contrite, he handed his sister one of the bags of blue gummy sharks and then opened a glass bottle of Sprite to go with a mouthful of Ellie's homemade sugar cookies. She certainly knew his comfort foods—and comfort television.

"'And if your hands were metal, that would mean something,'" Chuck quoted along with Mike. "That never gets old."

"How many times have you seen this tape?"

"Enough that I can quote the entire thing from memory, although it helps to have Morgan around so we can take turns—y'know, when two different people are talking. It's kind of weird to do all the voices yourself."

"Yeah, _that's_ the weird part."

Chuck stared at the TV, then smiled sadly. "Dad and I watched this sometimes. I actually taped the episodes for a few months and played them when he was home, hoping he'd sit down and watch with me. Pretty stupid, huh."

Ellie didn't say anything, but listened intently.

"But Bryce and I watched 'em all the time. Every Saturday morning, we'd split a box of Apple Jacks and sit in front of the TV like kids. And Star Trek! If there was a rerun of Next Gen or the original on, Bryce would find it. Except, he didn't like Voyager, but I did." Chuck looked down at his hands. "They were all stuck together in the Delta Quadrant, but they became really close…like a family," he said quietly.

"What _happened_, Ellie? I've been home for three weeks now and I still don't understand what happened. I mean, Bryce was my _best friend_—he was practically my brother. I would have done anything for him and—and—and I don't understand why he did this to me!" Chuck had never been good at expressing anger or hurt feelings. "Mom left and then dad died and now Bryce…" He put his head in his hands. "I'm not gonna have anybody left at this rate."

"Not a chance," Ellie reprimanded, grabbing her brother's shoulder. "You've got _me_. No matter what happens, I'm not leaving you—and I know you won't leave me. After mom left, we took care of each other. After dad died, we just kept right on doing the same. And even if you do leave, Chuck—even if you go away and don't call me or email me or have anything to do with me for _decades_—I'll be ready to pick up where we left off when you come back. I am your big sister, Chuck, and I will _always_ be here for you."

Chuck was astounded by the forcefulness of her words and, although he had to look away so she wouldn't see the tears in his eyes, it comforted him to know the depth of his sister's love. "Wow," he replied hoarsely after a moment to compose himself. "That almost topped the MST3K videos and the candy and cookies you got me."

"Yeah, well, I take my role as big sis pretty seriously."

He looked down at his hands again. "I take my role seriously, too, El. I'd never abandon you." He looked up at her and smiled a little. "Not even if you decided to marry Dr. Perfect."

Ellie lightly punched him in the shoulder, then reached across him to get a sugar cookie. "Married," she laughed. "Yeah, right."

* * *

Chuck could not even _begin_ to describe the pain pulsating through every nerve in his body. Only half awake, it seemed like a better idea to continue sleeping and hope that the throbbing would disappear. A few times he managed to go back to sleep, but the pain continued its intensity. Finally, he forced his eyes open as far as they would go and waited for the blurry surroundings to come into focus.

When they did, he spotted someone typing furiously on a laptop on the other side of the room. Unfortunately, Chuck's feeble attempt to get some attention only resulted in a softly uttered "unh." _Something's wrong with me_, he thought. _My face isn't working._ Two very confused minutes passed while he tried to reassemble a mass of jumbled memories and emotions.

_I'm alive_, he realized. _There was a cockroach, and then Bryce, but he died, and Ankulos got very angry, but…but Bryce didn't die and he shot Ankulos. Then…Spock?_

A very slight shift to change his position caused Chuck so much pain that he cried out loud, which incidentally caused him to tear open one of the cuts on his mouth, causing further agony.

The figure in the chair jumped up and nearly dropped the laptop on the floor. "Chuck?" he asked, rushing to the bed.

"Ice?" Chuck mumbled when Bryce came into view.

Bryce, momentarily surprised into inaction, collected himself and grabbed a tissue to wipe away the blood on his friend's chin. "Hey, buddy, welcome back to the living. I'm gonna go get the doctor—"

"Get…me…drugs," Chuck managed, now fully cognizant. "I hurt."

Bryce nodded and hurried out of the room while Chuck briefly reconsidered his request. He'd been force-fed so many drugs in the past couple weeks that it seemed almost dangerous to take more. _But if I don't get something for this, I'm gonna throw up, and then I'll be in more pain, which will either kill me or make me wish Harry had just finished the job_.

Moments later, Bryce and a middle-aged man in a lab coat speed-walked through the door. Soon, a woman in a lab coat entered, followed shortly by a younger man in a lab coat carrying a syringe and vial.

"I am very sorry, Mr. Dent," the older man said, addressing Chuck while simultaneously checking vital signs. "We weaned you back from the heavy doses of medication to help you wake up, but I imagine the pain is unbearable. I'm Doctor Getz and if you'll just give me a minute—oh, good, Major Giffen," he exclaimed when the woman entered. "Where's the hydromorphone?"

"Captain Keller's bringing it now, sir; he keeps the key to the cabinets. How do the vitals look?"

"Elevated everything, but that should come down when the pain does."

"Did somebody order drugs?" Captain Keller asked as he rushed in.

Dr. Getz nodded. "Standard dose, patient is approximately 80 kilos."

Captain Keller stuck the syringe into the vial and managed to pull out the correct dose of drug while also walking to the patient. "This should do the trick," he assured Chuck as he placed the needle in the IV catheter. "It should give you a good few hours of relief."

Seconds later, the pain dissolved into a mere nuisance while a feeling of peace and warmth spread over him. Chuck visibly relaxed and closed his eyes. "Oh, thank you, God," he mumbled.

Dr. Getz pointed at the captain. "Would you—"

"Go get the drip equipment?" Keller guessed. "I'm on my way. I'll grab some metoclopramide, too, Colonel, in case of nausea."

"Good man."

As Captain Keller exited, Sarah and Casey entered. Chuck felt muted surprise at their presence, but that emotion—like all others—stayed swept under the carpet of a powerful opioid. He deeply appreciated the dearth of feelings.

"What's going on?"

"Is he o—you're awake!"

"He doesn't look right."

Colonel Getz turned to look at the three spies in the room. "You're all dismissed."

"But—"

"You're not doctors; you're not colonels; you're not needed. Mr. Ford," he said, speaking to Bryce, "you should go rest. Major Prosser, Miss McMillan, you can go wait somewhere and I'll update all of you…when I feel like it." He returned his attention to the patient, but muttered to Major Giffen, "Intelligence personnel—think they have to be privy to every little thing; they drive me up a wall."

* * *

"So, who's gonna debrief him?" Sarah asked the next day while she, Bryce, and Casey sat in a far corner of the base's cafeteria.

They stared at one another, each hoping somebody else would take responsibility. It wasn't as if they were going to hit him with a stick—only ask him to relive every horrible thing that had happened. In detail. For the record. And to find out if he had, at any time, compromised the nation's security.

"I'll do it," Casey finally grumbled.

Sarah shook her head. "I don't know if that's wise."

"It's not like I'm gonna beat it out of him!"

"How about drugging him?"

"I did what I had to do, Walker, just like you. And at least I don't lead him on to get what I want. There's nothing a guy loves more than being _toyed_ with."

"Except getting threatened, insulted, and pushed around all the time."

Bryce slammed his hand on the table to silence their bickering. "_I_ will talk to him." His hand turned into a fist that he rested his chin against. He sat, mute, staring broodingly at an empty chair while he thought. Right before the quiet became too much, he turned his attention back to Casey and Sarah. "You two need to think about where you stand. I am _determined_ to help Chuck; I don't know what that means exactly, but it'll definitely require a confrontation with Graham and Beckman, so decide now."

* * *

The following day, Bryce peered into Chuck's room to see if he was awake.

"Can I come in?"

Chuck looked up from the book Captain Keller had lent him—_The Neverending Story_. ("I've been to South Korea, Afghanistan, and here," he explained at the time. "It's seen me through all of them. Try not to get any blood on it.")

"Can I say no?"

Bryce shrugged. "You can, but I have to debrief you eventually, so…no, not really."

Using his good hand, Chuck gingerly placed the book on the overbed table and turned his full attention to Bryce, who sat down next to the bed.

"Why do they call me 'Mr. Dent'?"

"It's an assumed identity, same as the rest of us. I told 'em your name is Arthur Dent."

"Arthur Dent?"

"Yeah."

"As in Arthur "_Hitchhiker's Guide_" Dent?"

"…Maybe."

Bryce tried to look nonchalant. "The swelling's gone down," he observed. "And they're gonna get a dentist to replace the teeth you lost as soon as Colonel Getz gives the okay." He pulled out a pad of paper and a digital tape recorder. "Have you ever been debriefed before?"

"Not really."

"I just need to know what happened, starting with your first interaction with Harry Ankulos."

The Intersect sat silently as he thought over the past week's events. The sadness in his eyes, though, belied Chuck's stoic façade, so he closed them and spoke slowly. He described Harry's sudden appearance at the underground facility, his apparent amiability and caring. He talked about the kidnapping, the negotiations with the Russians and Chinese, and Vega's betrayal and murder. He divulged the Chinese Intersect download. He even admitted to telling Harry how the Intersect worked in his head. When he finally stopped talking, Bryce looked up from his hurriedly scribbled notes.

"Is that all?"

Chuck looked down. "Yeah," he said softly.

Bryce fiddled with his pen for a moment and tried to figure out the best way to approach his friend. "It isn't…_really_…everything, though…is it." It wasn't a question. "I mean…" He took a breath. "You didn't mention calling Ellie."

Startled, Chuck turned his head quickly to face Bryce. It didn't help with the pain. "How did you know about that?"

"I had access to all of her calls and voicemail messages."

"What happened after she heard it?"

Bryce shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I was closing in on your location and I didn't want her to hear that and freak out, so I deleted the message. If she'd heard it, we would've had to bring her in."

"Oh."

"Yeah. So…what happened with that call?"

Chuck pushed his book around while he avoided looking at Bryce. "Vega had a bag of prepaid phones he used to call the Russians and Chinese. I managed to steal one and called Ellie from the bathroom. I wanted to warn her to leave L.A. because Ankulos had threatened to hurt her if I tried to escape." He paused and looked at Bryce, whose expectant stare forced Chuck to continue. "He must have heard me through the door because he broke it down, grabbed the phone, and smashed it on the floor."

"What happened after that?" Bryce asked softly.

Chuck's hand shook as he rifled through the book's pages. "He said I'd made a mistake. He said he couldn't hurt me, so he'd have to hurt Ellie. He asked if she was pretty." Chuck moved his hand to his side because he couldn't control its movements. "I begged…I begged him not to hurt Ellie. I promised to cooperate; I told him I'd do whatever he wanted if he left her alone. After that, I got the Chinese download and woke up the next morning."

Bryce had stopped writing out of necessity; he was gripping the pen so tightly that it nearly broke in two. "Is that everything?"

"It is."

Bryce put away the notepad, pen, and tape recorder. He had planned to stay and talk and try to work things out, but now he couldn't fathom _how_ to begin. What could he possibly say?

"Captain Keller said you've only been using a third of the Dilaudid they're giving you."

"I don't want to take drugs."

"I'm sure they wouldn't let you get addicted, though. Trust me, you need to get rid of the pain so you can rest."

"I _don't want_ the_ drugs_," Chuck replied angrily. "_I_ get to decide what I will and won't take. Nobody else gets to decide that."

Chuck's reaction left Bryce speechless. He was now even less sure about how to approach his friend. Frantically, he brainstormed possible responses that might segue into a discussion that could lead to a dialogue that offered, maybe, a glimmer of reconciliation and hope. Nothing came to mind. Thankfully, Chuck took the opportunity to ask a question that had long been on his mind.

"Why did you get me thrown out of college?"

"What?"

"I saw the video of you talking with Professor Fleming, but why didn't you give me a chance to turn down the CIA? I could have told them I wasn't interested without getting kicked out of college. You never gave me a chance to decide for myself."

"You have to understand, Chuck; the CIA isn't used to being told they can't have something. They're extremely persuasive."

"Oh, I understand that perfectly."

Bryce sighed and sat back in his chair. "I'd already been with them for a year when Dr. Fleming said he was gonna pass your name on to the Agency. I'd mostly done training for that year, but a few weeks before Fleming's test identified you as a candidate, I took a four day weekend to go on a mission to San Diego. It was _supposed_ to be reconnaissance; a Yemeni citizen was passing funds from a Kuwaiti citizen to finance cyber terrorism. Unfortunately, I drew attention to myself and we had a little standoff. It was kill or be killed, so I shot him.

"In one respect, I was very satisfied to have killed a terrorist; I had protected my country. But I'd never taken anybody's life before and it really haunted me. We're conditioned to value life and people's right to it, so it was hard to reconcile seeing myself as a decent human being who'd shot and killed someone. It took me a long time to come to terms."

He chuckled softly. "And you. I knew you'd agree to join because they would have played to every soft spot you have—help others, do the right thing, use your genius to benefit the world. That's how they got me. And for a brief second, I thought it'd be amazing if we could work together like that, but you were horrified that time you ran over a squirrel. How would you come to terms with killing a human being? How would you feel knowing your computer program neutralized ten militants—and a group of unlucky school children? I could see it playing out in my head, Chuck, and I knew I couldn't let them destroy a really great person."

"Then why did you—"

"Send you the Intersect? You were the _only person_ I could think of. Whomever I sent the program to had to be capable of understanding it, trustworthy, and under the radar. I couldn't count on anybody at the CIA—anybody in the government, really. I couldn't use it on myself because Vega was after me. And, frankly, I knew that when push came to shove, you'd always do the right thing."

Bryce hung his head. "I'm really sorry, Chuck. I'd give anything to go back and change all that's happened."

"But you can't."

"I know."

They sat in complete silence. Bryce hoped that his friend would say something—get angry and yell, forgive and reconcile, continue asking question. But Chuck just stared at his book. Eventually, Bryce stood up to leave.

"If you need anything…or you wanna talk, y'know…"

Chuck nodded but kept his gaze down. After a second, he opened his book with his good hand and waited for the door to close before he began reading.

* * *

Chuck recuperated over the next week. He discussed his pain medication with Doctors Getz and Giffen and convinced them to prescribe less addictive drugs. He read and reread (and reread) _The Neverending Story_. With the exception of a video conference with Director Graham and General Beckman, he avoided all intelligence officers on the base. Captain Keller, though, provided the occasional conversation.

Eating Chuck's bowl of Jell-O, Keller sat in the chair Bryce had formerly occupied. "This is why I got into nursing," he explained. "I can't understand why you don't like it."

"Just the green kind."

"Nah, that's my favorite."

Chuck swirled his chicken broth with his spoon. The silences with Captain Keller weren't nearly as uncomfortable as those with Bryce or Casey or Sarah. In fact, the nurse's amiable, laid-back attitude let Chuck feel comfortable enough to ask a question.

"D'you ever feel really angry at somebody, but maybe you don't have the right to be?"

"Hm, that's a hard one. I'm not sure I understand exactly what you mean."

"Well, suppose you had a friend. A best friend. The kind of best friend who's like a brother." Chuck stopped for a second to figure out the scenario. "And he joined a company. And he found out that his company wanted to hire you, except he thought the company would be really bad for you. Now, he decides that you shouldn't join, but he can't stop the company and he can't really talk to you about it. So, instead of letting you possibly choose to join the company, he gets you kicked out of—um, he destroys your reputation so the company can't hire you. He's ruined your life, but with the best of intentions."

Captain Keller nodded sagely. "Ah, the best of intentions; we know what road those pave." He contemplated Chuck's hypothetical situation. "Ruining my reputation to keep me from making a poor choice seems like a pretty poor choice in itself—sorta like amputating an entire leg when only the toes have gangrene. What, exactly, makes my friend think he has any right to make my decisions for me?"

"Well, admittedly, he's working off information you can't possess, so he's more informed. But he also has a tendency to, y'know, take charge."

"Which never bothered me before," Keller surmised, "because I'm pretty easy-going."

"Plus, when you both started…uh, at your first company together, you might have started a year early, whereas he took a year off before starting."

"So I'm two years younger than he is."

"Right."

Captain Keller pondered over the facts for a few minutes. He thoughtfully bounced his spoon on the remaining Jell-O cubes and sighed a couple times before eventually responding, "That's a tough one. I can appreciate that my friend wants to look out for me, but, clearly, he's _way_ overstepped his boundaries. I'd say you're—or, rather, _I'm_—fully justified in being angry. In fact, I'd probably want to beat the crap out of this hypothetical friend."

"Would you ever be able to _not_ want to beat the crap out of him?"

"Wow, Arthur, you really know the tough questions to ask. I guess…I dunno. I'd certainly like to settle the matter—it's hard to go through life being so angry at someone; that'll wear you down. In my case, I'd probably try to work it out if only for my own peace of mind. Of course, that's extra hard if my friend still thinks he did the right thing."

"Actually, he might be reconsidering that. He might be regretful."

Keller mulled over this new information. "In that case, I'd probably _not_ beat the crap out of him, although that still sounds very satisfying. I might even consider giving him a second chance if he could learn to stay out of my business."

Chuck considered the captain's advice. It sounded good. It sounded like something Ellie would advise. If she could ever know the truth. Or see him again.

Captain Keller set the empty bowl of Jell-O on Chuck's tray. "I'd better get back to work before Colonel Getz notices I've been eating a patient's food instead of administering medication." He stood and stretched. "It's just that you make better conversation than the enemy combatants. And you speak English." He was about to leave when he remembered some papers in his pocket. "Hey, I photocopied some more Sudoku for you."

"Payment for the Jell-O?"

"Yeah, we'll call it even."

* * *

At the end of the week, Colonel Getz cleared Chuck for travel back to the United States, where he would get to spend more time sitting idly in a hospital bed. "Oh, at _least_ another week—probably two," the colonel exclaimed when asked how long the new hospital stay would last. "Yes, your injuries were very severe, Mr. Dent; the blood loss alone could have been fatal, not to mention all of your broken ribs, which need time to mend. And I can't even remember the last time I came across a diaphragmatic hernia. Indeed, Mr. Dent, it's a miracle you survived at all."

On his first day at the new facility, Chuck mostly slept. He hadn't wanted any strong pain medication before the trip, but that changed quickly when he had to get up and move around. He welcomed the hydromorphone and offered Captain Keller a smile of sincere gratitude. He then lost consciousness.

A lot of nothing occupied the next three days, but on the fifth, Chuck received a surprise visitor.

"Can I come in?" Sarah asked.

Chuck nodded and put down his magazine. During his short stay at the hospital, he'd discovered that medical personnel had terrible taste in literature. AARP, Sailing World, Golf Digest—had they _never_ heard of Wired? He'd even be content with Ranger Rick.

"How're you feeling?"

"Okay."

She smiled unsurely and looked around. "Bored?"

"Not too badly."

He sat and patiently waited for the silence to overwhelm her. It wasn't that he _wanted_ to make her uncomfortable (that was just a side benefit), but _she'd_ come to _him_—presumably for a reason. ("I'm here to let you think I have feelings for you," he imagined her saying. "Then I'm going to remind you that it's all pretend and not understand why you're hurt. But before that, I have to tell your sister you're dead." Mentally, Chuck shook the thought from his head and chided himself for getting angry and defensive at Sarah's mere presence.)

"Look, Chuck…" Here it came. "The last time you and I spoke, it wasn't really…_pleasant_. I didn't have much time to think about it then because of the search for Vega. But now I want to tell you that I'm _really_, _really_ sorry. I couldn't disobey my orders, but maybe I could have handled them…differently? I don't know. I shouldn't have let you think it was a temporary move underground. And I shouldn't have told Ellie that you died; there must have been something else I could think of."

Wow. Chuck hadn't anticipated an unqualified apology. When Sarah occasionally apologized for her actions, she usually chalked them up to necessity.

"I don't normally care what people think of me," she admitted with unusual candor. "And I don't expect you to just forgive me or trust me again, but do you think you could ever stop hating me? I don't want to be the black hole inside of you."

For a moment, Chuck was awed by the depth of her sentiment. It sounded familiar, though. Where had he heard about hate and black holes? Why did it sound so meaningful?

"My letter," he realized. "You read the letter I wrote to Ellie! That wasn't any of your business!"

"Bryce had it! I'm sorry!" She hadn't meant to implicate Bryce; it just popped out.

"_What_ is the _matter_ with you people?" he fumed. "I can't even write a private letter to my sister without it being passed around the CIA office. I didn't _choose_ this life, Sarah—or whatever your name is today. I'm tired of being government property; I'm tired of being spied on by a group of people who cannot, for a single second, understand that I'm not the sum of the computer in my head. I am _not the Intersect_; I am a guy who misses his family and his life and—and…" Overwhelmed, Chuck closed his eyes and finished the sentence with a sigh.

"I'm tired," he said calmly. "I'm too tired to hate—you or anyone else. But I don't know how to come to terms with all of this. I don't think I even speak the same language as you guys. Where I come from, people care about each other because they _want_ to, not because it's their job."

"I _do_ care about you, Chuck. I really do care what happens to you and if you're okay. I _have_ feelings, even if don't always show them." She reached out and took hold of his hand. "If I didn't care, I wouldn't be here. _This_ isn't in my job description."

He looked past her for a minute, then asked, "You aren't doing this because you have to?"

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Are you kidding? I got into this business for the action and adventure, not so I could bare my soul to a guy whose opinion I value way too much. The only reason I'm here is because I _really_ want to mend our friendship, Chuck."

"That could take a lot of time," he admitted.

She smiled gently. "Good. I like having a goal to work toward. And who knows," she added wistfully, "maybe something positive will come of all this one day." Chuck stared at her pointedly and Sarah nodded. "Yeah, I'm not gonna hold my breath, either."

* * *

In D.C., Casey sat across from General Beckman.

"How is the Intersect?"

"Improving."

General Beckman nodded. She seemed distracted and a little unsure—two very unusual descriptions for the director of the NSA. It weirded Casey out.

"I've been in contact with Agent Larkin," she stated.

"Oh?"

"Yes. He's contacted me repeatedly about releasing the Intersect back into society. He believes that, since the Fulcrum threat was neutralized with Harry Ankulos's death, Mr. Bartowski is _safer_ than before this debacle. Agent Larkin has even proposed a method of returning the Intersect without creating suspicions."

Casey raised both of his eyebrows. He knew, of course, that Bryce wanted to harass the government into letting Chuck go home, but it seemed ludicrous. How would people react to seeing the victim of a recent fatality _alive_? Sure, it'd be great if Bartowski could go back to the way things were. In fact, Casey, himself, wished the poor kid could get a break, but it would be hard to explain away a resurrection.

"What did you tell him?"

General Beckman shrugged indifferently. "I told him that I had already chosen another assignment for you. As you know, Major, there have been increased tensions with the Soviet—I mean, with the Russian Federation." The general remained stoic, but Casey smiled at her slip. "We need a good man in Russia—someone with a passion for the country, who knows the language, the culture, the ins-and-outs. We also need someone who has experience with…clearing obstacles."

"Clearing obstacles? But we can't do that anymore; they wouldn't even let the CIA take out bin Laden in the '80s and '90s."

"Yes, the CIA's been under a lot of scrutiny since the Church and Pike Commissions. However, the NSA is not the CIA. And, of course, we would never consider asking one of our agents to break federal or international laws. However, Russia is a dangerous place, Major. Between an unfettered mafia, corrupt political base, and separatist militants, important figures can come to an untimely end."

Casey couldn't believe what he was hearing. "So, you're offering me the chance to go back there and…?"

"Establish a network, gather intelligence, keep us informed. And troubleshoot—as the need arises." She sat up straighter. "Casey, you were the first person I thought of when the NSC brought it up. They need the best and you've been asking for an assignment more appropriate to your skills. I can have you set up in Moscow in a month."

This was news he'd been hoping to hear for the past year. _Finally_, he'd be back in the action, able to work without the interference of Sarah Walker or the fear that he'd mess up and lose Chuck. And no more Buy More!

"There is, however, one small matter for you to clear up before I reassign you." She waited a moment before continuing, "I told Agent Larkin that, without the presence of an NSA agent, the Intersect would have to be returned to custody. I also informed him that I would not risk further contamination by assigning a new officer to fulfill your duties as handler. Therefore, Mr. Bartowski _must_ go back underground…unless you choose to forego Russia and continue your present assignment."

Casey's excitement immediately fell to pieces. He couldn't believe the general was giving him such a difficult choice. For her part, General Beckman was surprised that her best agent didn't unhesitatingly choose Russia. She'd assumed the choice was easy and would immediately put an end to the Intersect nonsense.

"Major?"

"Yeah." He sighed. "Look, General, normally I would love nothing more than helping a few Russians find God or sabotaging an important oil pipeline." He paused and realized that his upcoming statement was surprisingly truthful. "But I'd rather stay with the Intersect assignment. I don't like to leave loose ends and, to be honest, it's been a…_learning_ opportunity; the circumstances have stretched my skills as an operative."

"And, apparently, your compassion." When Casey wouldn't look at her, she added, "There's no need to feel bad, Major. It happens to the best of us. And at least it's compassion for a law-abiding American and not, say, Vladimir Putin."

John immediately looked up at her. "Is he on the table? Because I'll go there if I'm allowed to facilitate his state funeral."

"Putin is definitely _not_ on the table."

"Oh. Fine."

General Beckman handed Casey a file. "That's the information for explaining the Intersect's sudden resurrection and appearance. You can coordinate it with Agent Walker and Mr. Bartowski when he's cleared by the doctor." She stood up to walk her favorite agent to the door. "I must admit, Major, I'm very surprised by your decision."

"So am I," he mumbled.

"Just remember," she warned him at the door, "the Intersect can't stay free forever. At some point, he'll have to return to custody. We can_not_ risk the safety and security of 300 million Americans for one young man. You understand that, don't you?"

"I do."

She watched him exit and marveled at how much change he'd undergone in only a year—and wondered how many more complaints she would receive about his behavior at Buy More. There had never, in the history of the world, been a person _less_ inclined to customer service than John Casey.

* * *

A week after he began to reconcile with Sarah, Chuck found himself headed—with his guard—to the radiology department at the hospital. The nurse wheeled him there while the guard walked behind them. No one spoke. They weren't supposed to. Chuck had been warned to converse only with people whom Graham or Beckman had personally cleared. So far, that included: Graham and Beckman. Not even his handlers or Bryce seemed to be on the list. They hadn't shown up since Sarah extended her olive branch.

In addition to reading, Chuck's time alone gave him the opportunity to think about his relationships and future, the latter of which didn't seem _especially_ bright. Usually, the thought of a lifetime in a human storage facility filled him with despair. He hoped, however, that he'd be able to make friends over time and, maybe, transfer somewhere nicer, like Guam. Surely no one would think to look for The Intersect there.

He had briefly considered asking if they would place him in the same facility as Laszlo, with whom he could now better relate. That seemed unlikely, though, since the government wouldn't trust either of them. Besides, Laszlo wasn't exactly the most stable Jenga piece in the tower.

Relationships were less depressing than the future, but more complicated. Except Casey. Chuck figured he'd never see Casey again, since the older man seemed to feel nothing but contempt for him. (Chuck hated himself for feeling sad about that.)

He felt that, with time, he could grow to be friends with Sarah, though. Her honesty had surprised and touched him. Maybe it was wrong, but it felt good to know how bad she felt about her work. He hoped she would visit him underground and maybe bring pictures of Ellie and Devon and Morgan.

As for Bryce, Chuck felt a growing desire to give the other man a second chance. He could, sort of, appreciate Bryce's motives, even though those motives had disastrous results. More importantly, Chuck Bartowski wasn't the kind of person to refuse an honest apology.

"Excuse me."

Startled from his thoughts, Chuck looked up to see the nurse standing above him.

"Sorry to leave you here, but I need to go get a radiology tech; the X-ray machine is giving me some trouble. If you have any problems while I'm gone, pull the emergency cord on the wall."

Chuck looked around the room. "Where's the other guy?"

"You mean your acquaintance? He had to make a call, so I sent him outside. No cell phones in the hospital; they interfere with some of our equipment." She headed for the door. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

A full thirty seconds passed before Chuck realized he was alone. There were no agents standing outside his door. No doctors or nurses to report on his whereabouts. Surely neither agency had the foresight to install monitoring equipment in an X-ray room on the off chance that a security risk would randomly be there alone.

Chuck pulled himself up into a sitting position. He swung his legs around and slowly stood, grateful for the diminishing pain in his chest. It still hurt to cough, sneeze, breathe deeply, bend down, or stretch, but the pain had steadily decreased in intensity over the nearly three weeks of recovery.

He walked nervously to the door and peered through its small window. A single technician stood in the hallway flipping through someone's chart. She looked busy and confused. Chuck tightened the belt on the robe the hospital had graciously provided and opened the door. The technician didn't even look up.

Externally, Chuck remained very calm while he walked down the hall. Internally, he had a nervous breakdown.

_What are you doing_? he demanded of himself. _We can't leave! Where are we going to go? How will we get there? We are in _pajamas_ and a _robe_! That _has_ to draw attention! We might as well wear a sign that say, "Escaped Patient: Please Return to Psych Ward."_

He continued to rant to himself even as he entered the nearest elevator and pushed the button for the first floor. As he descended, Chuck questioned his sanity. He knew he had a lot to work through after being kidnapped, repeatedly threatened, and then nearly beaten to death, but he hadn't expected the psychological wounds to manifest themselves through an act of sheer lunacy.

The elevator's doors opened on a bustling lobby that Chuck stared blankly at. He stepped out and obscured himself in a corner where he could collect his thoughts.

_Okay, they're gonna know I'm gone in a couple minutes. I need to…uh…uh…I need to…what do I need?_

He closed his eyes and tried to think, but no ideas presented themselves. Gradually, as the stress of the situation built up, he realized that he couldn't try to escape again. He didn't have the resources or the stamina.

_I need…to go back upstairs_, he admitted to himself sadly.

Chuck trudged back to the elevators and pushed "up." When one opened, he moved inside and stood before the buttons. The bottom two buttons were for the basement and lobby. The next two were for the second and third floors. The next for the fourth and fifth. They continued rising to the eleventh floor. Unfortunately, Chuck had no idea which level he had come from, or even how long he had been in the elevator to begin with. Downtrodden, he proceeded to press every button. He would have to look at each floor to find something familiar.

On the seventh floor, Chuck finally saw a sign that read "Radiology." He stepped out of the elevator and headed back down the hall he'd come from. He tried to think of a good excuse to explain away his absence to the agent. Got lost searching for the bathroom? Needed a drink? Briefly abducted by aliens? As he opened the door to the X-ray room, Chuck decided on the bathroom excuse; the aliens one might get him sent to a different section of the hospital.

"Hey, Chuck."

Chuck stood in the doorway. "Bryce? What're you doing here?"

"I wanted to see you before you went home."

"Oh." He sat down on the X-ray table. "I'm kind of glad you showed up; I wanted to talk to you."

Bryce suddenly looked a little nervous. "Really?"

Chuck nodded and took a moment to pick the right words. "When I first found out why you got me kicked out of college, I was a little relieved; I'd always just thought you suddenly hated me, so it was nice to know you had a _reason_ for ruin—for doing what you did." He'd have to choose his words carefully. "But that didn't change the fact that _you_ decided for me—"

"I know, and I'm really sorry—"

"Yeah, yeah. Look…what's done is done. I don't want to be angry about it anymore. Besides, you said you were sorry—and you _did_ stop Harry Ankulos from killing me."

"You did the same for me."

"All right, so you can owe me one."

Bryce smiled knowingly. "I owe you a few, but I think I can earn myself a little redemption." His grin grew wider. "I got you transferred to a different facility. It's in California." He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. "Lemme see, here…oh, yeah, you'll be staying with a Miss Eleanor Bartowski in Los Angeles. Apparently, she has a spare room."

Chuck's eyes grew wider and his jaw dropped a couple centimeters. At first, he couldn't respond. "I'm going back home?"

"It'll be like you never left."

"How can you do that? Ellie thinks I'm dead."

At this question, Bryce's grin became a little smug. "According to Sarah's story, you died in a car accident after colliding with a pickup truck. Since the government didn't want to produce a body, your charred remains were supposedly unrecognizable. Therefore, Ellie never actually saw you dead.

"I _suggested_ to Director Graham and General Beckman that your reappearance could be explained as a case of mistaken identity; your body had been misidentified as one of the people on the pickup truck and you spent the last month in a coma and wrapped up in bandages. Now that you've "recovered," you've been able to identify yourself. Thankfully, you don't have any memories of the car accident."

Bryce chuckled a little. "It was a close call, though; when you left here, Beckman thought for sure that you were trying to escape again. She was ready to pounce when you stepped out of the elevator on the lobby."

"How did she know…?"

"She's the one who arranged for you to be left alone. She wanted to see if you'd leave or stay. If you had stepped outside the hospital, there's no way she would have consented to letting you go home."

Chuck lay down on the X-ray table. "I can't believe it. I can't believe I get to go _home_."

"Frankly, I can't either. This is unusual for _any_ security risk, but you're the mother lode. Graham was fairly receptive, but Beckman wouldn't have anything to do with it. To tell you the truth, I think Casey may have gone to bat for you."

"_Casey_? He _hates_ me."

"Not nearly as much as he hates me, but go figure."

Both men stayed silent waiting for the other to speak. Finally, Chuck asked his friend, "Now what?"

"Now you go back to your room, I guess. I have to go brief Director Graham and get my next assignment. You'll fly to L.A. tomorrow, though, with Sarah and Casey. You'll need to get your stories straight before you find Ellie; you might want to get some smelling salts, too, for when she passes out. And then it's back to life as usual."

Chuck nodded.

Bryce nodded.

They stared at one another.

"So…I'd better get going," Bryce said and inched toward the door. "You should stay here until the nurse and agent come back. And no more elevator trips."

Chuck smiled. "Qapla', Bryce," he stated as Bryce began to exit. Bryce turned around and grinned.

"Qapla', Chuck."

* * *

"Do you need a sedative or something?" Casey asked as they waited in his car. In the apartment, Sarah was delicately breaking the news of Chuck's not-death to Ellie. In the car, Chuck couldn't stop bouncing his legs up and down or control the mild tremor in his hands.

"No, I'm just a little nervous. And excited. I thought I'd never get to see her again; I thought I'd never get to come _home_."

Casey didn't look at Chuck, but he asked very nonchalantly, "So, you're pretty glad to be back?"

Chuck turned to stare at his reticent handler. "_Glad_? I—" He stopped when he comprehended the question's subtext. "I'm more than glad. I'm whatever is the _most_ glad you can be. And I'm really grateful to, y'know, whoever made this possible. That person must be pretty amazing."

Casey grunted noncommittally and continued to watch the streets for possible threats.

After a moment, Chuck saw his sister bolt out of their front door and frantically look around. She took a few hesitant steps toward the car and tried to ascertain the identity of the person inside. Still nervous, but fueled by adrenaline, Chuck opened the car door and stepped out. He only made it a few paces before Ellie raced forward and wrapped her arms around him.

"Oh, Chuck! Oh, Chuck, I can't believe it!" she cried, clinging on to him despite his cast and sling. "I can't believe you're alive. I'm so grateful! This is the happiest day of my life!" She sobbed happily into his shoulder, then pulled back to see his face. "Oh, look at you." She touched his cheek. "My baby brother."

"I am _so happy to see you_," he managed, trying to conceal his own tears as he pulled her back into a hug. As they walked toward the apartment, neither could let go of the other.

Sarah beamed at the happy reunion and, as he drove to the apartment parking lot, even Casey found it a little difficult to maintain his gruff exterior.

* * *

"Wow. Okay," Chuck managed after unwrapping Jeff's gift and finding a blow-up doll box. He placed both hands strategically over the doll's picture. "I appreciate the thought, Jeff, but this isn't really my kind of…pastime."

"Nah, that's just the box I used. You have to open it."

Chuck glanced at the other room's occupants and then carefully peeked inside the packaging. He smiled with relief and pulled out a gold cartridge. "This is fantastic! Where did you find an original copy of The Legend of Zelda?"

"I got it on eBay. It didn't come with a case, though."

"Yeah." Chuck hurriedly set aside the game and placed the box under a pile of wrapping paper. "Yeah, maybe you could just use a bag or something next time. You don't even have to wrap it, really."

Jeff shrugged and took another bite of cake. "All right. Happy birthday."

"Thanks."

During his misadventures, Chuck had completely forgotten about his birthday. It was hard to believe that, as of the day he woke up in Venezuela, he had passed exactly one year as The Intersect. Now, with his jubilant return home and an impromptu birthday party set up by Ellie, circumstances didn't seem so horrible.

Ellie (and Devon) had given him the entire box set of _Voyager_. Morgan got him the 20th Anniversary Mystery Science Theater 3000 collection and a box of Cap'n Crunch. Anna, in an unusual gesture, gave him a traditional, red Chinese envelope with some money inside. Following her lead, Lester handed over eighteen dollars. ("It's a Jewish thing," he explained. "'Cause the letters add up to eighteen.")

Casey passed his present to Chuck. "Here."

After unwrapping the package, Chuck held up the gift. "A bottle of whiskey. From you." He examined the seal. "Well, at least it isn't tampered with."

"Are you kidding? That's an eighty-dollar bottle of whiskey. It should be treated with care and respect. Now send it down here because you're supposed to offer guests a drink when you get liquor."

Chuck laughed softly and obligingly handed the gift back, after which he accepted a leather-bound notebook from Sarah.

"It's just a place for you to write down your thoughts or ideas where no one will look at them. I promise it'll be totally off limits—to everybody."

He offered her a genuine smile. "Thanks, Sarah. I really like it."

Chuck reached for the final gift on the table and looked around. "Who's this from?"

Ellie, seated on Devon's lap with her arms around his shoulders, pointed at the door. "I don't know; it was in our mailbox today with a note to give it to you with the other presents. It was probably someone who couldn't make it."

Before Sarah or Casey could stop him, Chuck tore off the wrapping paper and found, to his handlers' relief, a copy of the _Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_. Inside its front cover, someone had written simply: "To Arthur, From Ford." Underneath, the writer had penned gibberish with a mix of capital and lowercase letters.

"So?" Ellie asked.

"Oh. Yeah, you were right; it's just an old friend who couldn't make it." He set the book down and grabbed the MST3K box. "Who's up for some riffing?"

The group (except for Casey) consented and Chuck handed the box to Morgan, who turned on the DVD player. Chuck took the opportunity to move his gifts to his room. He smiled at the guests and excused himself quickly.

"Happy birthday," Bryce said when Chuck walked into his room. "What'd you get?" He looked at the gifts in Chuck's arms. "_Voyager_? Really? Don't you think that's kind of dorky?"

Chuck dumped his presents on his bed. "You're not really one to talk, _Ford_."

"At least I don't like _Voyager_. You're probably a fan of _Enterprise_, too."

"Ew, no."

Bryce led them out the window and away from any listening devices. He settled down in a secluded area of the apartment complex's garden.

"I thought you'd be off on a new assignment by now," Chuck commented casually as he sat down.

"Look, the thing is…Chuck, somebody else knows about you."

"Knows about me?"

"Somebody outside of the government contacted me after Ankulos took you to Venezuela. He provided me with the information to help find you, which means he knew about you, the Intersect, and Fulcrum. I think Fulcrum is bigger than Ankulos and Vega, who decided to work together and exclude their organization for a bigger payout. This informant wouldn't have called if he could have retrieved you by himself. But he's out there, Chuck, and he might not know anything about you except that you exist, but that's enough."

Chuck experienced a sharp increase in panic. "Does this mean I have to go back? I just got home!"

"No. I didn't tell Graham about my source until this morning; I wanted to wait until after you got home and saw Ellie. Graham will tell Beckman and she'll have a fit, but they can't really pull you out again without raising suspicions. Right now, my job is to find the informant—before he finds you."

Chuck slouched against the apartment building behind him and rested his head in his hands. "What happens now?"

"Now you let Sarah and Casey do their jobs and believe that I'm gonna do everything I can to get this guy. I know it's hard to trust any of us, but you _have to_; our biggest priority is to keep you safe."

"No," Chuck responded. "_Your_ biggest priority might be my safety—maybe even for Sarah and Casey, I don't know—but the security of the Intersect is the government's priority. I understand that now and I can even appreciate it. But I'm home now and I'm not gonna let Graham or Beckman bury me in a holding cell forever."

"Chuck…"

"I won't run away or try to escape again, but I'm not prepared to roll over and take it, either. You can tell Beckman and Graham that their contingencies will need modifying."

Bryce stared at his friend in surprise for a moment and then grinned slightly. "I kind of like this newer, less amenable Chuck Bartowski. Graham and Beckman won't, of course, but I do." He stood up and walked back to Chuck's window. "You'd better get back in there before they start looking for you."

Chuck hoisted himself up to the window and looked back down. "Y'know, you might be legally dead and undercover and on a mission, but you don't have to be a stranger. I've got a pair of those glasses with a fake nose and moustache you can use."

"Yeah, I'll just stick with the window when I'm in town."

Chuck smiled. "I'll see you later, then."

"Yes, you will."

Bryce disappeared into the surroundings just as Ellie knocked on her brother's door. "Chuck, is everything okay? We're already past the first host segment."

Chuck opened the door and looked at his sister for a moment before giving her a hug. "Everything's fine; I was just thanking that old friend for the book."

"Good, then come on; everybody's waiting for you." She took his arm and led him out of his room. "Besides, Morgan is trying to explain the show's premise to Casey and he's looking kind of irritated. I think he may have growled."

"It's okay; he's harmless. Well, _mostly_ harmless."

* * *

End


End file.
